Love's Divine
by Librasmile
Summary: The story isn’t completed yet so this summary may change. The short version is: What if Superman had a Black girlfriend? Takes place after Superman Returns. Includes as canon Superman The Movie and Superman II. UPDATE: The rating has gone up to M.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: **This is my first Superman fan fic. Be gentle (please!) :)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of the Superman canon characters. Original characters are all mine. Thank you Bryan Singer for honoring Richard Donner's vision. Thank you Brandon Routh for honoring Christopher Reeve's legacy.

Love's Divine

By Librasmile

Chapter 1

**Scene 1**

"I'm always around."

But not today. For the love of God. Not. Today.

"But Superman never lies."

Who told you that lie? Oh. Right. It was me.

Superman hovered in the air between the flags atop the Metro Tower. The unseasonably strong wind whipped the scarlet banners around him, hiding him from the accidental gaze of potential onlookers below. He needed invisibility today. He craved it. If he'd had his way, his body would disappear altogether _melt, thaw, resolve itself into a dew_…He desperately wanted to disappear. But disappearing is what had caused this…this…_this_ in the first place. He'd run away – _flown _away for 5 years. And when he'd come back… When he'd come back, life had moved on without him. There _was_ no coming back.

So today he stayed. Invisible. But present.

Swallowing the bile that rose to his throat, he willed himself to peer through the billowy flags, through the building opposite, the walls, the insulation, the concrete, the structural beams. There. He could see them. He could see her. He almost smiled. As with everything else in her life, Lois had chosen simplicity and efficiency, always looking for the fastest way to get things done. He couldn't blame her. Life was short. At least for humans.

He sighed. She was beautiful. She was married. She was beyond his reach.

She stood next to Richard White, her husband now, surrounded by guests and well wishers. With one exception. For once in his life, Clark Kent hadn't been mild-mannered enough to accept the invitation; he'd stayed away, causing a scandalous amount of office comment, but for once he didn't care.

His heart squeezed as his eyes shifted. Jason stood by Lois' parents, his grandfather affectionately ruffling his hair. It had been cut for the occasion and he looked slightly uncomfortable in his new suit. He wouldn't be able to see him tonight. Lois and Richard would be honeymooning away which meant Jason would stay with his grandparents for a while. And there was no way to explain what Superman would be doing at their grandson's window if Lois wasn't also there.

He bowed his head. His own mother had never met Jason.

He'd had enough.

In one fluid movement, he took to the sky.

Scene 2

His cape fluttered around him as he descended through the clouds. Like a shadow he alighted on the stony window ledge and melded into the dark. This was one of his favorite buildings. The cathedral sat like an anomaly on the prairie plain, stately and ornate amidst the flatness of the horizon. Built by an eccentric millionaire who'd made a fortune in wheat and wanted to give something back. Unlike the rest of his neighbors he was Catholic and so he'd built a cathedral. It sat just outside of Smallville and the folk in the town and surrounding county had regarded it as kind of benign joke. But he had loved it. It had become one of his favorite perches when he'd first learned to fly.

Learning to fly had been exhilarating – but terrifying too. He realized he could go where his parents couldn't reach. He was up in the wide, open sky alone. He'd originally crash landed into the belfry, ringing the bell both literally and figuratively. He'd had to sit awhile and regain his nerve. It was then that he'd noticed the serene beauty of the place. The soaring arches had made him feel less alone in the sky as if there was still something to hold on to. And he stood there now, on the ledge of the belfry letting the night wash over him and shroud his presence.

I don't know what to say.

Just say you love me.

The memory of those words replayed in Superman's head.

That's what Lois had said the first time he'd walked away from her. But he'd said it first when she'd asked him how he could give up his powers, his identity, for her. I don't know what to say, she'd said, aghast. Just say you love me, he'd said. He'd truly believe it'd be enough. They'd both had. General Zod had shown them otherwise. And Jor-El.

Bless me father for I have sinned.

And kept right on sinning.

In the aftermath of the destruction, he'd taken Lois' memory from her. He'd thought it was an act of kindness. Just as he'd thought leaving her, leaving the planet, allowing her to get on with her life with no interference, even if only professional, from him, was an act of kindness. Even then he'd known he was lying to himself. It was despair, not kindness that had driven him from the planet. Losing Lois had driven the reality of his essential loneliness deep into his core. There was no one he could love, not as himself, as all of his identities, without putting a potential death sentence on their heads. Clark Kent couldn't seem to inspire love in the one woman he truly loved. And Superman couldn't love her without nearly getting her killed. And if the disaster with Zod had shown him anything, it was that he could never permanently separate the two selves. Nor could he ignore the third, his identity as Kal-El, son of Jor-El. He'd felt fractured and broken, with no one with whom he could share his pain and no way to mend.

So the decision to leave had been easy. Not right. Not good. Easy.

As long as he didn't look into Lois' eyes. He'd run from telling her he was going because if he hadn't he'd never have gone. Even now. When there was no hope he could ever be with her again. His will still would have crumbled at the sight of her, at the plea he'd fear he'd see in her eyes. Don't go, he would have read there. And she would have said it. She might even have shouted it or cursed him. And he would have been trapped.

So he ran without looking back.

And now he was paying the price.

Kryptonians didn't believe in sin. They prided themselves on being a supremely rational people. They believed in cause and effect, action and consequence. If Jor-El were alive, he would have chided his son for feeling despair over consequences of actions that he should have foreseen. That knowledge gave him no comfort. It only wrapped his loneliness around him tighter. It wasn't rational that he should still care about the judgment of his dead father but he did. He knew Jor-El would cite this as the inevitable consequence of violating Earth's own laws of time and space all those years ago. It is forbidden to interfere with Earth's destiny Jor-El had intoned. Even now the sound of that injunction echoed in his memory.

And that was why he couldn't interfere now.

He watched.

He'd given Lois back her life in defiance of Jor-El's will and maybe God's. There was no way he could take it from her now. Superman had done it once before. Finally, finally, at least this one time he'd learned from his mistake. Lois would have a husband. Jason would have a father. Even if, once again, it meant that for him, there was nothing left.

**Scene 3 **

"How could she do it?"

"How couldn't she?"

"Shh!"

Melanie looked up from her computer screen and glanced surreptitiously across the aisle. Clark Kent sat hunched in front of his computer screen, motionless. She glanced back at her co-workers. "This isn't the time or place to talk about this."

Carla Gretcher, lifestyle columnist, scoffed. "Oh it's never the right time for you, Sister Christian. Don't get so high and mighty. I know for a fact that you care what happens to Perry White's pet." She leaned in closer. "You can't tell me it hasn't crossed your mind that now that Lane has made her choice she might just decide to pull up stakes all together and get the hell out of blue boy's home base. And if that happens, you can best believe there'll be a free for all over who gets her spot."

Melanie frowned but said nothing.

Carla snickered. She didn't need Melanie to respond. She knew she'd hit her mark. "I don't know about you," she drawled, gathering up her notepad, "but I know _I _wouldn't mind being put on the Pulitzer Prize winning fast track." She smiled sweetly. "Just saying." She snatched up her latte and flounced back to her desk.

Melanie glared back at her, then rolled her eyes heavenward.

"She's right you know as much as I hate to admit it."

Melanie leveled her irritated gaze on her other co-worker, Sherry Thomson, who laughed.

"And you know she can't live unless she's gossiping about someone. Lois isn't back yet. And you know how it goes: no Lois, no Superman. Perry's going nuts."

"So is he," Melanie said softly, staring over at Clark again, then blinked. She hadn't meant to speak her thoughts aloud.

Sherry settled into a chair next to Mel and handed her a latte. "Yeah," Sherry said. "I can't believe he didn't go to the wedding. He's always been so…" she sputtered, failing to come up with a big enough word to fully sum up the puppy-dog devotion Clark had lavished on Lois. "Just _so_," she said.

Melanie sipped her drink. "I don't know what he's going to do when they get back."

"Have a meltdown?" Sherry said acerbically.

"I think he's already there," Melanie said glumly. She felt for Clark.

Sherry stared at her. "Don't tell me you're falling for that puppy dog act."

"What? What act? You're nuts!"

"Mmm-hmm."

Melanie sucked her teeth impatiently. "There's nothing there to fall for."

"Exactly!" Sherry said. "What kind of man lets himself get led around by the nose for years but never makes a move? First he's second place to Superman. Now he's third place to Richard. Who puts up with that?"

Unnoticed across the aisle, Clark looked over at them.

Melanie shifted nervously. "That's not what I meant."

"Sure, Mel."

Mel grabbed her wrist. "No listen to me!"

Sherry looked down at Mel's grasp on her wrist then back at Mel. "I'm listening."

Abruptly, Mel snatched her hand away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry." She sighed, shaking her head. "This is ridiculous," she muttered. She took another breath then spoke in her normal voice. "What I meant was…" she trailed off. What _had _she meant?

"Excuse me." Mel jumped up and sped off toward the ladies' room. She could feel Sherry's gaze burning into her back.

Sherry stared after her friend as she sped by Kent's now vacant desk. "Oh no," she said softly.

**Scene 4 **

"Okay people what have you got for me?"

Perry White rubbed his hands together in anticipation. At least that's what it looked like to the reporters and editors packed into the pitch meeting. In reality it was more like anxiety. The Daily Planet was the last word on all things Superman but the star reporter who constituted the paper's Superman connection was missing in action at least until her honeymoon was over. Blast Lois for taking three weeks off anyway. True, she'd more than earned the time. But the Planet published daily. That meant 18 issues including three Sunday editions without a fresh Lois take on Superman. And nobody covered Superman like Lois. He didn't know how they'd found out (damn that New York Times society column!) but the advertisers had already called about Lois' absence. They weren't too eager to buy ad space without knowing for sure there'd be a Superman article that week. He'd had a hell of a time convincing them not to scale back their orders. They'd stayed on board, but the condition was that he rustle up some fresh Superman coverage and fast. That meant getting another one of his reporters in good with the man in tights.

He glanced over at Clark. As Lois' former partner, Kent was his likeliest prospect. But the man was a shambles. His normally button-downed collars had come undone, his starched shirts rumpled under the still pressed formality of his suits. What little he'd had to say when he was talking to anyone who wasn't Lois had trickled down to nothing. Oh, he did his work, he met his deadlines. But he wasn't _there_.

Perry rubbed his forehead distractedly. If he couldn't jump start Kent he was looking at the much tougher task of grooming another reporter to get to Superman. Since he'd never had to do anything like that before he didn't know if it would succeed or how long it could take. Lois could be back by then. Ad revenue could also be down by then. And they were facing a tough quarter, the post-Christmas slump. He didn't even want to think about the prospect of a rival paper taking over their niche.

"Come on, come on people! Cough it up! What have you got?"

Silence echoed back at him as he looked around the table.

Sherry stared hard at Mel who shook her head minutely. Sherry glared. What the hell was Mel thinking? This was their opportunity. She nudged her with her elbow.

Tentatively, Mel raised her hand.

Perry's hawk-eye fell on her. "Yeah, Carter, wadda ya got?"

She cleared her throat. "New Krypton."

Perry's expression remained blank. "That's it? We've done New Krypton. More importantly Superman doesn't care about New Krypton—"

"Actually chief," Sherry chimed in, "Superman hasn't _commented _on New Krypton. There's a difference."

Perry's gaze grew thoughtful. "You think you can get him to comment?"

From the seat beside Sherry Mel glared at her. Her heart was only half in this. They were playing with fire and with Lois married to someone else now who knew how Superman would react? What if he stopped talking exclusively to the Planet all together? Not only would they lose their market niche but, knowing how Perry felt about covering Superman, probably their jobs.

"I think we can reel him in," Sherry said confidently.

From the opposite end of the room Clark stared intensely at the two women. Nobody noticed because everyone else in the room was doing the same thing.

Mel bit her bottom lip and looked down.

"All right, Thomson, what's the bait?" Perry asked coolly.

Almost instantaneously there was collective intake of breath at the loaded question. The whole staff, hell the whole company, knew Lois Lane was on her honeymoon and, short of a crime or disaster, no one had ever come up with anything or anyone else who could reliably bring Superman flying over to their perch.

Imperceptibly a faint flush crept slowly across Clark's face. Beneath the tweed of his jacket his shoulders tensed.

"We're not fully agreed on this," Mel burst out.

Sherry stared at her, surprised and angry.

Mel ignored her. "The bait," Mel said with distaste, "is the question of Kryptonians as gods."

The room froze.

Perry's eyes narrowed. "What?"

Sherry leapt into the breach. "The concept," she began, sparing a betrayed glance at Mel, "is a series tackling the question of who the Kryptonians really were. Think about it, chief. A whole series collating everything we know about Krypton – "

"Which is precious little," Mel pointed out.

"We have enough," Sherry snapped. "Then comparing it to what we know about the technology and religions of ancient civilizations like the Aztecs and the Egyptians and the Celtics and looking for possible connections."

Clark gaped. Again no one noticed.

Perry sat back, frowning. "Hmm, it's intriguing, Thompson. But that sounds like a Sunday supplement. How is this relevant to today?"

"New Krypton," Mel said quietly. "How much is it like what we think the old Krypton would have been? How will it evolve in space today? How will it affect our own planet? Will a new civilization arise there? And whatever happens, whose fault is it?"

Clark closed his eyes. Not again. He forced himself to look back at them.

Perry started nodding. "Whose fault is it?"

"But it's not a fair question chief!" Mel interjected.

"Fair?" Sherry said. She pointed out the conference room window. "Superman put another planet into orbit in our solar system. We don't know what's going to happen. What if it's gravitational pull rips our planet apart? Who the hell told him he could do that? Since when was he appointed god?"

Mel leapt up from her seat. "Superman never claimed to be God! If he hadn't launched that rock into space it would have kept growing and generated a tsunami that would have turned Kansas into ocean front! What was he supposed to do, leave it here? He almost died stopping it! We should be giving him a medal, not trying to string him up by his cape!"

Perry looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Who said anything about stringing him up? These are all valid questions." His expression hardened. "And as a journalist it's your job to ask these questions regardless of whose feelings it hurts. I think the blue boy can take it."

"Can he Mr. White?"

As one the room turned to Clark. "I-I-I mean, I think Miss Carter is right. Superman almost died trying to save the planet. He's only one man."

"A _super_ man, Kent. If he didn't want the responsibility, he shouldn't have used the power."

Clark gaped at him. Perry turned back to Sherry and Mel.

"I like it," he said firmly. "It just needs a little more work. Thompson, Carter you're with me. The rest of you, you've got deadlines, go meet 'em." Sherry and Mel stood glaring at each other as the rest of the staff scattered. Clark paused for a minute before heading for the door.

"Freeze, Kent."

Clark turned back.

"You're here."

**Scene 5 **

Mel plunked her elbows on her desk and wearily rubbed her temples. It was after 8. Perry had kept her, Sherry and Clark in his office for another hour going over strategies for developing the New Krypton series. As the religion writer, Sherry would handle the religious issues. Mel wrote the science column so it was her job to present scientists' latest data on the new planet. Perry wanted both women to write about possible connections between Kryptonian technology and ancient civilizations. He was, in fact, really excited about it. He had been full of ideas and was especially eager to generate a layout using photos of the Egyptian and Mexican pyramids contrasted against charts and diagrams of what scientists thought Kryptonian architecture might have looked like.

That was the one positive outcome of Luthor's vile scheme. His use of the crystals and the rocky deposits that had fallen back to Earth from the island Superman had taken into space had given researchers a spectacular look into Kryptonian crystal technology. Steve Parker, who worked the crime beat, had told her that Luthor was bargaining for less prison time by offering to cough up to the U.S. military everything he'd learned about how the crystals worked. Rocky Toller on the foreign affairs beat said that heated battles had already broken out in the U.N. Security Council as various nations fought over who would have access to that knowledge. The heat was being felt in the White House. So now, instead of sitting in federal super max, Luthor had actually been shipped down to Guantanamo Bay military prison; if any other nation tried to snatch him for their own interests, they'd have to fight through a nuclear-powered American army to get to him. Meanwhile, she'd been getting word from her own contacts in the science community of rumbles of dissatisfaction: Why hadn't Superman just told them about the crystals himself before any of this had happened?

Mel shook her head sadly. No matter what happened, Superman was going to take the blame. It was the fallout from people – and nations – that were still seething over his five-year absence. Lois' interview with him had gone some way toward explaining his actions and defusing the resentment. Superman's actions had done even more. But New Krypton had re-opened old wounds. Even with his near-death, the world, fickle as it was, was starting to clamor for Superman to explain himself again. And she knew in her heart, he wouldn't be able to resist trying. In fact Perry was counting on it. The whole series was designed to force Superman to come to the Planet and talk about New Krypton. It would run for three weeks. There would be an anchor article in the Sunday edition, a full photo layout with a recap news story of the current state of affairs with New Krypton wrapping around a center-page commentary on the Kryptonians – and, by extension, Superman – as gods angle. Clark would write the commentary.

She laughed humorlessly. She and Sherry had managed to put their hostility to one side – for now – as they worked with Perry to develop the series. But Clark had remained monosyllabic. He hated this even more than she did, Mel realized. She hadn't meant for Sherry to pitch the idea, which had originally been Mel's. She'd thought of it one Sunday after church. The pastor had preached about the human compulsion to play God and mankind's inability to control it unless they had surrendered their will to God. Sherry had snorted and said "Which God?" To which Mel had replied "Whichever one you choose."

"Yeah," Sherry had countered, "but can people even tell what God – of whatever faith – is? I mean most people think Superman is a god!"

That had brought Mel up short. "No they don't!" she'd said.

"Yes they do! Who do they call on when they're in trouble? Not Jesus. Not Allah. Not Krishna. Superman."

The conversation had stayed in Mel's head until she'd been forced to write it down at home. And, one thing leading to another, she'd put together a commentary on the subject: "Superman or Savior?" She'd shown Sherry a draft of what she'd done but she hadn't pitched it. It remained on her home computer. And their conversation had continued, exploring how Superman managed to live with people's unhealthy adoration of him and whether this was the inevitable result of his powers or something intrinsic in his Kryptonian psyche.

Mel had thought it would remain an interesting hypothetical conversation piece between the two women. But without warning Sherry had taken the idea to Perry. The journalist in Mel told her that Sherry was right. This was an important series that, if done right, would generate readership, add luster to the Planet's already lofty journalistic reputation and advance their careers to boot.

But she still didn't like it.

Before she'd left for the day, Sherry had stopped by Mel's desk. "With Lois away, this is our best shot to get up the ladder and into Perry's inner circle and you know it, Mel. The door won't be open forever. Take my advice and stop fighting it."

Mel had crossed her arms and glared at her. Sherry had shrugged and swung out the door.

But Sherry was right.

She needed to go home. Sighing, she sat back and began gathering her things. Pulling open a drawer, she pulled out her pocketbook, searching the contents for her keys. Curling her fingers around them, she pulled her bag free – then abruptly slammed the drawer. Crash! The sound echoed through the nearly empty office. Mel grimaced guiltily but not for long. The crash had felt good. She had a sudden urge to smash something else.

Grabbing her laptop case, she swiveled out of her chair – and slammed right into Clark Kent.

"Oomph!"

"Sorry!"

He reached out to upright her just as she started toppling over. Good Lord, he was tall. Standing in her sneakers instead of her pumps, she just about came up to his chin. He grabbed her elbows to steady her. She grabbed his coat.

"Are you okay?"

She looked down at her feet: still on the ground, still upright. She let go of his coat and hiked her laptop case strap back onto her shoulder. She looked around for her coat.

"Ahem."

He held out her coat for her to step into it.

"Oh! Thank you, Clark."

She turned to step into her coat and for a brief second she thought she saw something flare up in his eyes. When she turned back it was gone.

He stared at her for a beat. "Well." A polite smile came and went. "Good night, Mel."

She stared at his retreating back, baffled. It seemed like he had made sure she would run into him – literally – for a reason but apparently now he'd lost the nerve to say what he wanted. She glanced toward the exit sign. She really needed to go home. She called out to him. "Clark!" He stopped and looked back, eyebrows raised in question. "I'm really not good at hailing cabs. Want to share?"

He sat quiet and still, his chin in his hand as his gaze traveled across the room to the starry city landscape view in the window on the other side. She mimicked his silence as she absently toyed with the remains of dinner. His sat untouched in front of him. She hadn't expected to be out this late. It was after 10 and the dinner crowd had long since given way to the dating crowd looking for an intimate spot where couples could get closer. She started to feel uneasy and out of place. She glanced over at Clark who brought his gaze back to her as he seemed to pick up on her mood.

"I guess we should call it a night, huh?" he asked quietly.

She nodded, grateful for his understanding.

They headed out into the night and walked down the sidewalk in silence.

Conversation had not been a big part of the evening. After they had exchanged the mundane details of work, there hadn't been much to say. Surprisingly, they hadn't gone into detail about their new assignment. By unspoken mutual agreement, they'd avoided the topic in the implied understanding that neither of them had recharged their batteries enough to tackle the subject. And yet it hadn't been awkward. That was a new experience. At work, Clark was the definition of awkward. The one undeniable grace the man could claim was his ability to generate enough juicy news stories to feed even Perry White's rapacious appetite (and to even keep Lois looking over her shoulder, truth be known). Otherwise, he was a walking crash cart. Mark Kimmel, the health editor, suspected it was a psychological tic. Clark, he said, probably felt awkward and unsafe around others and the tension manifested itself in physical klutzy-ness.

Melanie wondered about that. On a certain level it made sense. She didn't imagine there were a lot of things for a Kansas farm boy to feel safe about in the cut-throat culture of a big city newsroom. She could relate. She wasn't the most outspoken person in the world, a definite liability in a journalist. She'd learned to overcome it through sheer dogged hard work and creative thinking. What other reporters got through badgering she got through persistence and frighteningly thorough research backed up with a relentlessly polite persistence that wore people down without making them feel bad about it. Still, she'd wanted to hide under her desk more than once in her career and she'd covered auto unions in Detroit. She knew how it felt to be insecure and Clark's eyes certainly didn't radiate security. Since Lois announced her engagement, they'd been desolate. Now in the wake of her wedding, they were roiling and bleak. And hooded she realized belatedly. Whenever she'd strayed outside of the invisible conversational limits he'd answered her easily with almost none of the more typical Clark stammer. Yet his eyes had been distant – no, shielded, as if he was erecting some internal wall to block the full force of his personality.

Suddenly, she stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Clark looked at her questioningly. "Mel, are you all right?"

She put her hand to her forehead, shaking her head as if to clear it. She felt lightheaded, as if she'd looked into too many fun-house mirrors. She felt Clark grab her elbow to steady her. "Mel what's wrong?"

_You_, you're what's wrong, she thought. She stared hard at him. "What did you want to ask me?" she said.

Clark blinked, confused. "What?"

She stared up at him as she tried to pull her arm away. He didn't stop her. But something else did. She frowned and tried again. "We've shared a cab. We've had dinner. You made a point to run into me on your way out of work. Is there something you wanted to ask me?"

Clark met her gaze without speaking. Mel stared right back trying to fathom what was going on behind his internal wall. He was the one to look away first. He shifted his gaze to the street before them. Mel's apartment was only a block away, which was why they'd stopped at this restaurant in the first place. But suddenly it felt a universe away.

"I didn't go to the wedding," he said quietly, so quietly Mel had to strain to hear. Of course she didn't have to ask _whose _wedding. The whole Daily Planet knew whose wedding he was talking about.

"Did I do the right thing?" His lips pressed thin and his forehead furrowed as he turned anguished eyes back to her. "Did I?"

For a fraction of a second Mel's mouth hung open. Then she closed it. He was looking for answers, not a slack-jawed idiot. She couldn't provide either one. Why he was asking her in the first place, she had no idea. Unless it was just because she was there. For the next three weeks, as they worked on this assignment together she would be there. There would be a legitimate reason to talk to her. And from what she'd seen of Clark's social skills, unless you were Lois Lane, Perry White or Jimmy Olsen, he had a mighty hard time trying to find reason to talk to you. Or maybe…maybe it was the other way around. He couldn't think why anyone would have a reason to talk to _him_.

They stood face to face on the sidewalk as lovers and neighbors stepped around them, moving on to more satisfying evenings and lives.

Finally Mel said, "I guess the real question is: Was it worth it?"

"Was what worth it?" Clark asked puzzled.

"Any of it," Mel blurted.

**Scene 6**

They slept together.

It should have been an ordinary night.

It wasn't.

He'd fallen asleep on her couch. He'd never come up with a satisfactory answer to her question and he could see that the pain that must have showed in his eyes as he realized he couldn't find one left her afraid to send him home alone. So she'd invited him to her place for a round of coffee. She'd called him a cab but, as it sometimes happens in the big city, it never came. They'd wound up on the couch.

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. He rarely got fatigued so he'd never needed much sleep anyway. But it felt good to skip a night playing hero. Looking back, he wouldn't have traded this night for anything.

They had started out in separate spaces on the upholstery with the light from the television bridging the gap in between. Out of habit, she'd turned on the 11 o'clock news. The anchor was doing a commentary on Superman. She'd thrown the remote control on the carpet in disgust. "Ugh! I'm sick of hearing about him!"

Clark had sighed and let his head drop to the back of the couch. "So am I," he said after a minute.

She'd stared back at him stricken. "Oh! Oh, I'm sorry Clark. I didn't mean to…" She grimaced and padded in her stocking feet over to the corner where the remote had landed. When she returned to the couch, he'd draped his arms across his eyes, blocking out the world.

"I'm not really in the mood for anymore news," he said.

She chuckled mirthlessly. "Me either." She aimed the remote. The television snapped off with a click. She dropped the device to the coffee table and stared at him thoughtfully. If this were anyone other than Clark Kent, she'd expect to find herself maneuvered out of her clothes and into her bedroom. Or rather she'd expect the attempt. But she'd had too much Sunday school and self-respect to let a man get away with that. Not as long as he remained, old-fashioned notion that it was, a gentleman. And Clark Kent was a gentleman. That's what made this thing with Lois so hard on him. That's what made _life _for him so hard, she realized. He was playing by a whole other set of rules. Most people were scratching for whatever they could get while making sure to do the bare minimum to stay out jail or hell or both. Meanwhile, Clark was somewhere by a metaphorical campfire singing kumbayah – or whatever the Kansas white boy equivalent of that was.

Mel shivered. She knew from personal experience how that kind of attitude toward the world only set you up for perpetual heartbreak. It's no wonder Lois had run roughshod over him without even thinking. With that kind of Pollyanna heart on his sleeve, it's a wonder he hadn't checked into the loony bin by now. Although, if the last few days were any indication, the clock was ticking and somewhere the orderlies were turning down the sheets.

He felt her eyes on him and dropped his arms from his face to stare questioningly back at her.

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

She could see the slight hardening of his jaw but she didn't feel anger coming from him. Just frustration and fear that she was about to ask him yet another wrenching question he couldn't answer.

"Do you go to church?" she asked.

He blinked. That was the last thing he'd expected. "To church?"

"Mmm-hmm. Where do you go? Where does your mother go?"

He opened his mouth to speak then stopped. Where _did _his mother go? His mind cast around for the memory of the last conversation they'd had when he'd been home. That was no good. They'd talked about her dating Ben Hubbard. _Had _she actually been to church lately? Which minister had officiated at his father's funeral? Pastor Greenburg? Greenbelt? Greenway, that was it! "Uh, St. John's Presbyterian," he said. "That's where my father's buried, in the graveyard."

She came back to the couch, scooping up the afghan and wrapping herself in it as she plopped down, Indian-style, on the cushions. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bring up sad memories." She looked down. "It's just that _I _go to church. Every Sunday." She looked sheepishly away and back. "Well almost every Sunday," she said. "And it helps, you know? I know that sounds corny," she ducked her head, "but I need it. My family is in Philadelphia. It's not far but it's not here. Perry is obsessed with Superman and if your beat doesn't cross his path you're out in the cold."

"But you're the science writer," Clark said quietly.

She smiled ironically. "But I'm not Lois Lane. If she wants the Superman story she gets it. Even Superman seems to like it that way – which would be fine at another paper that would give adequate column space to other topics but not at the Planet. And how much does Superman let us know about him anyway? Practically everything we know comes from what he told her five years ago. "

She wrapped her blanket tighter.

"Everything at the Planet is Superman: Superman this and Superman that. Sometimes I feel like I work at the church of Superman. I'm surprised nobody's formed a cult by now!"

Clark listened silently, intently. "The Planet," he said hesitantly, "means a lot to Superman, I guess. It was the first time he was ever able to speak to the whole world at one time. Lois gave him that voice."

Mel blinked, considering. "I never thought about it that way before."

Clark nodded. "I guess it just never occurred to him to try other avenues of communication."

"Or other voices." Mel shook her head. "It's not as if other media outlets wouldn't take him up on it. I think they'd all collectively sell their children to scoop one of Lois' exclusives."

Unexpectedly, Clark laughed. It was a warm sound, completely at odds with the sadness in his eyes. "Would they really?"

"Oh I'd put money on it!" Mel retorted playfully. "But gambling's a sin so I won't."

They smiled at each other.

"You know it's curious," Clark said after a while. "You're so religious but you're the science writer. How does that work?"

Her smile widened. "Everybody always thinks faith and science, they never mix; they're like oil and water. But actually the more I learn about the universe the more confirmed I feel in believing that there is a God. The universe is just too big and beautiful and orderly, despite everything, for there to be any other explanation."

She padded off to the kitchen to refill their coffee cups. Clark trailed after her, tucking his hands in his pockets as he leaned against her sink.

"And what have you seen? Of the universe, I mean?"

She pursed her lips, considering. "I've seen attack ships on fire off the belt of Orion."

He quirked an eyebrow. "That's from Blade Runner."

She grinned mischievously. "Oh you've seen it?"

"Who hasn't?" He countered, smugly. "And science _fiction _doesn't count."

She laughed and darted around him to run back into the living room, sloshing coffee and trailing her afghan behind her. Ew, that caffeine was going to leave a stain on her rug, she thought. But at the moment she didn't care. She plopped onto the sofa. Clark followed her to the living room but stopped short of joining her on the couch. His mood was half and half, half playful, half serious – with something else underneath that made her shiver. "Come on Carter, cough 'em up. I want the science _facts_," he said. "What have you seen that makes you believe there's a God?"

_What have you seen that makes you think there isn't?_ she wanted to ask. Instead, she said simply, "Superman, I've seen Superman."

His smile froze, then, millimeter by millimeter, disappeared. He looked down at the floor, biting his lip.

He couldn't think of anything to say.

Mel shivered. For whatever reason, she realized, what she said hurt him. Or no, not hurt him, _moved_ him.

Head still low, hands shoved in his pockets, he slowly, hesitantly followed her over to the couch. He looked at her and the searing blue of his eyes made her catch her breath.

"My dad," he said finally, "the day he died, he said, there's always a reason for everything."

"I believe that," she said honestly.

He pressed his lips together, as if just now, years later, being able to see the reality of his father's words.

"I just have to figure out the reason," he said.

Instinctively, Mel touched his arm. "Yeah, but you don't have to do it alone. That's the great part about being human."

He nodded, his eyes widening. "Guess I ought to figure out how to be human, huh? Got any pointers?"

She laughed ruefully and slid her hand up his arm to his back. His shoulder was stiff. Without thinking she started rubbing it. "It takes a lifetime of experience," she said. "The only thing that hasn't failed me is finding somebody bigger than me to take the weight."

He exhaled, relaxing fully this time, letting his head drop to the back of the sofa, his long legs stretching out before him. Without thinking he closed his eyes and removed his glasses as he rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Do you think God has rest stops?" he asked.

"All the time," she said. Her hand slipped lower, to the center of his back. She looked up at him. He was asleep, his glasses dangling from one slack hand. Carefully, she took them and put them on the coffee table. She stared at him again, considering. Should she wake him up? The poor man had wandered around the office all week looking as if sleep was a long lost friend. She looked at her clock. Midnight it read. Good Lord! Had they been talking that long? She yawned. The late hour was suddenly hitting her.

She took their cups into the kitchen and soaped them up. She'd get to them in the morning. She padded back out to the living room. She really should cover him up. She took off her afghan and spread it over him. He sighed as he felt the fabric settle on his body. She looked at his shoes. Lace-ups of course. By the time she got them off she'd probably wake him up. She left them alone.

"Lois?"

She jumped, startled. He was talking in his sleep. And his voice…She peered again at his face, swiping a hand across her sleepy eyes. Without his glasses, Clark Kent was…something completely different. She backed away from him, her eyes riveted on him, unable to look away and unable to stay and accept what she saw. Then she stopped.

_Everything happens for a reason_, he'd said. Even if he hadn't believed it when he said it, _she _did. She stopped, squared her shoulders, and walked back over to him.

Almost nose to nose, she studied his face. The hair was different. And with his eyes closed it was harder to tell. But she couldn't deny his voice. The timbre of it announcing the presence of another being entirely. Put the two together and the effect was disorienting. Gingerly, she sat on the edge of the sofa arm beside him. He was deeply asleep, his chest rising and falling with each breath, his body relaxed. He seemed to be exhausted. She hadn't realized he could be.

His voice. He'd called for Lois. The tone. She wrapped her arms around herself. He'd called for Lois in the tone of a man both sure of being heard and unsure of being accepted. A lover's tone. A despairing lover's tone. Superman and Lois Lane had been lovers.

Was she jealous? The thought came unexpectedly and, ruthlessly, she shoved it to the back of her mind. She had too strong a sense of self-preservation to allow herself to get mixed up in the cosmic conundrum that was Superman. Unlike most of the women at the Planet, or probably even Metropolis, Mel had never been infatuated with Superman. As her father had so often remarked, she had a knack for looking so hard before she leapt that nine times out of ten she never even got off the ledge. A man like Superman was not for her. Unlike Lois, she wasn't the type to believe Superman would always catch her – if ever. Life just didn't work that way. The race went not to the swift but to he who endured. And Superman had run away from Earth for five years.

Suddenly Lois didn't seem quite as thoughtless. What woman could wait for a man for five years? Her face hardened as she looked at him. Lois had married another man _after _Superman had come back. Why? What did Lois know that the rest of the world didn't?

She gasped and covered her mouth. Jason! Jason was Superman's son. Not only had Superman lost the woman he loved, he was losing his son. And Lois didn't know who Clark really was. How could she? She never looked at him hard enough to notice.

Her stomach turned over. So Clark had spent his life loving Lois as one man, and being ignored by her as another. And because of this he'd never be able to claim his son because Lois didn't know.

"Why didn't you tell her?" she whispered to the sleeping man before her.

_Did I do the right thing? _he'd asked her earlier that evening. He didn't tell her because he thought he was doing the right thing. Which meant that Jason probably didn't know who his father was either. She sighed. Her eyes stung. She put her face in her hands. Good God, what a mess!

_Everything happens for a reason_.

She looked up at him again. Her eyes were wet. No wonder he was tired. So was she. She looked toward her bedroom. It seemed too far away. Resolutely refusing to reflect on what she was doing, she lifted the afghan and slid in next to him. In two seconds, she was asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: _I'm not exactly great at promoting myself so I don't know how many more will see this and/or review it :) Thank you to those of you who have reviewed it (all two of you, lol!). That was sweet. Please hang in there. I'm trying to finish up Chapter 3 and I fear it make take a lot of hard slog to get that last scene done. This chapter should be safe but when Chapter 3 is published the rating will probably go up. Yeah, I'm bad...:D_

_Please read and review!_

Chapter 2

**Scene 1**

She told Sherry they were friends.

It was easier than telling her the truth, especially since she wasn't quite sure what the truth was.

She knew they weren't friends.

They were friendly.

But they weren't friends.

They were something else entirely that left her feeling breathless and exposed whenever he was around.

And the equivocation would have worked with anyone but Sherry.

Sherry wasn't buying it. She knew Mel too well.

"It was a date," she pronounced with finality.

"It wasn't a date!" Mel countered, exasperated.

"You went to dinner," Sherry retorted.

"Two co-workers sharing a meal," Mel said.

"He picked up the tab."

"He's a gentleman."

"You had him over for a nightcap."

"We had coffee!"

"He spent the night!"

"Lower your voice!" Mel glanced around the deli then glared at her. The two women were parked in a booth over sandwiches at Lucille's. The deli was only a block from the Planet and its hearty subs and what Sherry called its crack-tastic coffee made the place popular among the staff. The place was always packed at any time of the day or night with editors and reporters settling in for lunch, picking up breakfast bagels or fast food dinners, not to mention the perpetual coffee runs. Anybody from work could have overheard them.

"We didn't sleep together," Mel hissed indignantly.

Sherry stared at her skeptically, critically."You did something or you wouldn't be sitting there squirming. We've been friends for years, Mel, I know when you're lying. Just admit it."

"Read my lips Sherry," Mel said. "We didn't have sex."

"So what did you have? Sherry barked.

Mel threw up her hands. "You just won't give up will you?" she grabbed her pocketbook and threw some bills on the table. "I knew I shouldn't have talked to you. I knew you wouldn't understand."

"Oh and Clark Kent does?" Sherry called after her retreating back.

Scene 2

Actually it wasn't so much that Clark understood but that Mel was struggling to.

Clark looked up from his desk as Mel slammed back into the Planet newsroom. It was one of the rare moments he was actually at his desk. For the last few days he managed to be out of the building with the exception of deadlines and meetings with Mel and Sherry on the Superman series. Any objective observer would have said he was dodging her. But the truth was Mel was grateful; she wasn't anymore comfortable with him than he was with her.

She knew who he really was. And she wasn't any more happy about it than he was.

He was still in shock over the fact that she knew.

They hadn't talked about it. They hadn't even acknowledged it.

He had woken up in her apartment. She had handed him his glasses. Their eyes met. And he knew that she knew.

He hadn't known what to do when he'd woken up in Mel's apartment. He woke up sitting on her couch, wearing his clothes from the night before. She had already dressed for work and was ready to head out the door. But she'd left a mug of coffee for him on the coffee table and more in the kitchen. For once he'd needed it. He could use it now. They hadn't spoken. His eyes had skipped guiltily to her living room window. He could have been out the window and in his own apartment in a flash, pretended as if all of this was a bad dream.

But he couldn't lie to her. Perhaps it was stupid or self-destructive but he didn't have the heart to lie to another person, especially not another woman – one who had helped him, who was a potential friend. He didn't have a lot of friends.

But he didn't want to create another target either.

So he reverted to type and kept his distance. Or tried to.

The Superman series threw them together every day, which limited the effectiveness of that tactic. He was ironically grateful for the tension between Mel and Sherry that frequently erupted into full out argument. While Perry gleefully refereed, Clark laid low, allowing the two women to dominate center stage, and thus keeping his interaction with Mel to a minimum. Perry seemed to want nothing more from him than, in light of Lois' absence, to provide recollections of his "first-hand" experiences with Superman. That was Perry's main reason for having Clark write the commentary.

The problem was the commentary was supposed to goad Superman into flying over to the Planet's editorial offices to explain himself. His first effort did not please Perry, which meant he was frequently hijacked into meetings with the other three as Perry checked on his progress and gave feedback.

Helpfully, Mel seemed equally bent on avoiding him.

She got it, he realized.

But she was just as thwarted. They danced around each other, averting eyes, avoiding even the merest brush of contact.

So of course it was inevitable that they would collide once again.

Clark should have seen it coming. He was a _reporter _after all. Some things were just the logical consequence of certain actions and realities. If nothing else, he should have reckoned with Perry White's determination.

"He wants a follow up interview," Mel said bluntly.

Clark stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. He knew which interview she meant. He just couldn't believe she meant it.

"And I suggest you don't look at me that way _here_," Mel added acerbically. "It might make people…wonder…"

Clark exhaled sharply. "We better talk."

"Oh, you think?" Mel snapped. She turned and walked away before he could reply.

Her tone made him want to flinch and it made him angry although if either of them had a right to be angry it was Mel. But at the moment all he could feel was a roiling mix of emotion, so intense the air seemed to shimmer around him, like heat rising. Without thinking Clark snapped out. "Mel!" As if jerked by a string, Mel spun back to face him. Only it wasn't Clark's voice. It was the voice from three nights ago in her apartment. It was a voice that didn't belong at the Daily Planet but one every reporter was trained to respond to like Pavlov's dog. All around the bullpen heads looked up from computer screens, half-edited copy, and interrupted conversations. Clark clamped his hand over his mouth. What the hell was he thinking, he thought frantically. His horrified thought was clearly echoed in Mel's eyes although he could tell she was working hard to school the rest of her face into simple annoyance.

Mel strode back to him. Speaking as she walked she spoke loudly enough for those nearest to hear. "Nice try, Clark, but we need the real deal or you know what Perry's going do to us if we don't deliver the goods."

She looked down at him as she reached his desk. _What is WRONG with you? _her eyes telegraphed. He met her gaze, once again unable to come up with a satisfactory reply. _I don't know_ his eyes answered.

Across the room, Carla Gretcher typed casually on her keyboard while keeping a surreptitious eye on the two.

With an effort, Clark wrenched himself back into Clark-mode. "I-I-I suppose we could go to Gotham to see if Batman knows how to reach him?"

"Excellent idea, Kent!"

Mel and Clark both jumped as Perry's voice boomed out over them. They exchanged glances as Perry bore down on them. "Nice to know you brought your brain to work, today Kent. I thought Sherry and Mel were going to have to do all of the heavy lifting."

Mel crossed her arms and remained silent. She wasn't exactly disagreeing, Clark noted.

"Well, gee, Mr. White, I –" Clark started then stopped. His shoulders shifted and when he spoke again so had his voice. "You know how I feel about this series," he said. "It's wrong. Superman deserves better than that from us, especially this paper."

Mel and Perry both blinked. Mel stared at him, surprised. This wasn't Clark's normal voice. But it wasn't Superman's either. It was polite but firm and dare she say it full of conviction. Perry stared at him too but like a predator going for his prey. "That's why you're writing the commentary Kent."

Clark leveled his gaze on him. "You _want _me to write that I think this is wrong?"

"I want you to keep that backbone you've suddenly sprung and _dig _into the issues. You may not like it, but Superman is still the biggest story the human race has faced since the first mushroom cloud went up. Nobody's ever tried to do a series like this before. Not this thoroughly and we're the only outlet that can do it. We're the only outlet Superman consistently comes back to. So we're going to work it people." He glared pointedly at Clark and Mel. "Put your feelings in your pockets. You've got work to do. Get your asses to Gotham and get me Superman."

He stalked off.

Mel and Clark looked at each other. It was going to be a long trip.

Across the room, Carla Gretcher picked up the phone and dialed Metro International Airport.

Scene 3

"So you're a god, now? No wonder Luther wanted you dead."

The Dark Knight watched impassively as the blue-and-red clad figure descended slowly to the rooftop and stopped to hover just a few inches above. Except for the gift of flight, he envied nothing about his visitor. Whatever powers Superman possessed, he was still the last son of a dead race from a shattered world galaxies away. Batman couldn't imagine that level of – literal – alienation. Both men were orphans. But at least Bruce could visit his parents' graves, comb through aging photo albums, and touch his father's old shirts. Superman had nothing of his home, his _real_ home, that he could touch, at least not that he knew.

He made a mental note to immediately begin investigating him. He had been reading the Daily Planet series. He couldn't name anyone who wasn't. And, sensationalism aside, its implied point was correct. What did Earth really know about the Kryptonians? Look at what they had spawned in Superman. Look at what General Zod and his cohorts had done. By stealing Kryptonian technology, Luthor had almost terra-formed the planet. And the threat was still out there, circling the sun and adding its totally unpredictable gravitational force to their delicately balanced solar system. Trust could only go so far. Batman placed his faith in knowledge. And he couldn't put it off any longer. He respected Superman. But the Kryptonian was simply too powerful to allow him to retain any mystery. He needed to learn more about Superman, the implications of his alien heritage, everything.

From his hovering advantage, Superman looked down at his fellow caped crusader. He didn't pretend he hadn't heard the comment. "I didn't know you read the competition," he said acerbically.

Beneath his mask, Batman cocked an eyebrow. "Oh there _is _no competition when it comes to _you_. Besides, I like to keep up with current events." He tilted his head. "I guess when Lois is away, Perry will play," he added.

Beneath the red cape, Superman's shoulders tightened. He didn't know how much the Dark Knight knew about his feelings for Lois or what a sensitive subject she was, especially now. But he didn't have time to tackle that concern.

Batman noted the tension in Superman's body and, for a second, felt a twinge of regret for mentioning Lois. For a second.

"Oh Perry's playing all right," Superman admitted grimly, "With me as the football."

Despite himself, Batman smiled. "Faster than a speeding bullet, but can't out-fly media speculation, eh?"

Superman didn't return the smile. "Yes," he said simply.

Batman's smile faded. His expression hardened. He knew what bad press could do. Before Gotham had finally embraced him he'd been branded a vigilante and hunted by the police. Superman had never had to face such persecution. Even in his short absence before he'd gathered his strength to fight Zod, the press had always been respectful and before that adoring. But things were different now. The rise of terrorism had hardened hearts and smothered good will. People were less willing to trust, more willing to suspect. And his absence had been longer this time. Five years was enough to kill anyone's faith. And the world's population had been through a lot since he'd been gone.

"So what is you want from me?"

Smoothly Superman dropped from the air to alight softly onto the roof. He came to stand directly before Bruce, eye to eye. "Clark is being sent on assignment to Gotham. To find Superman."

"Excuse me?"

This time a rueful smile came and went across Superman's face. "It was a mistake, one of too many I've been making lately." _Maybe a lifetime of mistakes_, he added silently.

Realization dawned in the Dark Knight's eyes. "I get it. Without Lois Superman has no excuse to visit the Planet – " Something painful flickered in the Kryptonian's eyes then disappeared. "—so Perry goes for the next best thing. Me." He wasn't offended. He actually found it quite amusing. In a swirl of silken, black cape, Batman turned and started pacing the rooftop, considering. "Oh this is rich! You need _me _to save _your _ass."

Superman opened his mouth to protest and then closed it. What was the use?

"So what exactly do you need? A flash of the Bat signal and then you fly into the scene instead of me?" He chuckled. "Or maybe an exclusive with the Planet? One caped crusader to another?"

"For starters," Superman said. "Only not with me. I won't be alone."

Batman stopped pacing. "You have a new partner?"

"For now. While this series runs."

Batman looked at him incredulously. "Oh this series will never stop running, you know that don't you? People will never look at you the same way again. Ever."

Superman walked slowly toward him, closing the gap. "I know."

"So what you're really asking for is damage control," Batman continued. "This is not smart, Clark."

"Smart went out the window a long time ago," Superman countered. Frustration roiled in his eyes. "It's not a question of being smart anymore, Bruce. Now it's about trying to convince people that I'm not going to turn into Zod."

Batman pressed his lips thin. It was exactly what he was thinking. Superman saw it.

"I'm not Zod, Bruce," he said softly. "If I were would I have risked my life to remove Luthor's land mass? Would I have waited so long to come back?"

Batman sighed and shook his head. He wasn't actually responding to Superman's questions but to his conundrum. They were two men on the same mission, but, planetary heritage aside, they were coming at it from completely different worlds. In the public's mind before he'd left, Superman was the epitome of open-heartedness and optimism. Batman was the exact opposite. Pessimism and paranoia dominated his world, both of which were a better fit for the world as it was today. Batman lived in the shadows. Superman belonged to the light. Nowadays, it was easier to trust the darkness than the light.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked at last.

"My partner will contact Commissioner Gordon and ask for his help in contacting you. Ask him to agree and then make sure you show up. I'll do the rest."

"Mm-hmm, and where will Clark be?"

"It doesn't matter. She knows who I am."

"_She_? She _knows_? And if so then why the subterfuge? Why not just give her the interview yourself and move on?"

"I told you, smart went out the window."

Batman stared hard at him.

Sheepishly, Superman looked away. "I got backed into a corner," he added.

"Is she blackmailing you?"

"No!" Before Bruce's eyes, Superman's features softened. "No," he repeated. "Quite the opposite in fact. But her career is riding on this series. She needs to interview Superman but I can't do it. Not yet. I need you to help her out."

Batman walked away, considering.

"What are you not telling me, Clark?" he said finally.

"Nothing that matters, Bruce."

Batman shook his head. "Who is this woman to you?"

Superman thought a long time before answering. "A friend."

Scene 4

For the fifth time that night, Mel punched her pillows, fluffed them up again, turned over and tried to go back to sleep. She failed.

She gave up, sat up and turned on the light.

She checked the clock. Three a.m. She had hoped to stay in bed until 5 but she and Clark were scheduled for an 8 a.m. flight so it made sense to just stay up.

Flight, what a joke, she thought.

When the Planet's administrative assistant had handed her the plane ticket she had wanted to scream at the poor woman: Clark doesn't need a ticket! He can fly himself there – without the plane!

She shook her head and flung off the covers, heading towards the living room. She had to get her head on straight. Ever since that night in her apartment, when her eyes had been opened to Clark Kent's true identity, she had been off-kilter and disoriented. She'd felt like a ping pong ball, ricocheting between anger at the responsibility such knowledge imposed -- and the man who'd, however unintentionally, imposed it -- and the fear that somehow she'd slip up and expose him. The inner battle had left her distracted and stressed. But that was nothing compared to how shaken the rest of the week had left her.

She rubbed her arms as the memories replayed in her mind.

_It was pure dumb luck that got him back. That's it. I'd thought we'd lost him for good._ Those words echoed in her mind.

It wasn't as if it hadn't already been reported. The whole world had known Superman had basically lain at death's door for days. Mel had been one of the reporters assigned to cover the technical and medical aspects of the story but there was precious little to cover. The doctors didn't have a freakin' clue how to treat him. They'd pulled out a shard of Kryptonite, hooked him up to the EKG machine and prayed, while sweeping up the debris of the medical instruments destroyed by their failed efforts to revive him. What was truly chilling was that _nobody_ had seemed to have a clue. Not NASA. Not the CDC. Not the NIH. Not even their international counterparts. She'd politely pushed her way into interviews with research chiefs in all of these organizations. No one could offer her anything. True, they could have been simply bluffing to protect national security. But she'd cross-checked her findings with Donohue in international and he'd concurred. His contacts weren't giving out the usual stonewall tactics either. They really didn't know. For once the world governments had seemed to act without pre-emptive suspicion in the face of a perceived superpower and not taken pre-cautionary measures to determine how to neutralize it if necessary. Everyone trusted Superman. But that didn't mean they knew how to help him when he needed it.

_It was pure dumb luck that got him back. That's it. I'd thought we'd lost him for good._

She had sat with her mouth hanging open when she had gotten that quote. It had come from the ER chief who had led the resuscitation efforts. The doctor, a physician whom she'd interviewed before and whom she knew to have done advanced research with NASA, had rubbed his hands nervously and looked away. She knew he felt as idiotic as she must have looked. Her recorder had clocked a full minute of dead air before she'd remembered to turn it off. They'd looked at each other guiltily. All these years of serving humanity and not one person, not one nation had thought to figure out how to help Superman if he were ever wounded or ill. No wonder he'd taken a five-year vacation!

In the back of her mind, she heard the chilling dull thud as Superman's body smacked the ground.

Swallowing first to control her lurching stomach, she'd thanked the doctor, gathered her notes and headed back to the Planet.

Across the aisle, Clark sat at his desk for once, typing out a story for deadline. Her gaze fell on him and stayed.

The physician's words echoed in her head. _It was pure dumb luck that got him back_. Mel was less inclined to believe in luck than she was a higher power and that power was lashing her conscience relentlessly. She felt guilty for her hot and cold reactions to Clark ever since…well since. No matter how awkwardly and hesitantly he'd done it, he'd strayed across her path because he'd needed a friend. And now she was leaving him out in the cold solely because she didn't know how to react to him being _him_.

She sighed again and pressed her hand to her forehead as she booted up her computer. Inside her head, her conscience, battered by the higher ups, had turned around and started a knock-down-drag-out with her heart. Outside, her cursor blinked at her in time to the unseen battle.

Clark felt her eyes on him and looked up, questioningly. She opened her mouth to speak and nothing came out. He frowned, confused, started to speak then apparently thought better of it. Neither of them had managed to figure out how to respond to the other since…just since. He pressed his lips together, ducked his head and turned back to his screen but not before Mel could see a hint of disappointment in his eyes. Unconsciously, he rubbed his back.

Catching the gesture she froze. Without warning, Clark Kent, his desk and the Daily Planet bullpen disappeared. They dissolved into a wide expanse of cloud-flecked blue sky torn by a streaking figure of red and blue plummeting out of the atmosphere. In a flash, he hit the ground and the earth erupted in a scattering veil of dust and debris as it absorbed the collision. The impact of the thud landed in her chest and she jumped. And just like that, like a balloon popping, the images were gone.

She gasped and grabbed the arms of her chair to steady herself. She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. She forced her gaze to travel around the bullpen, deliberately seeking out the mundane. She saw Jimmy, swiping a stale day-old donut from the kitchenette**;** Perry, in his office, chewing out a reporter**;** Gil, absorbing the 24-hour news cycle on CNN. Then she sought out the irritating. Carla Gretcher looking askance at her as she chased down a rumor by phone, Sherry Thomson setting up her interview with Cardinal Leezac. She needed to force the real world and real time back into her head. It wasn't a hallucination, she told herself firmly. It wasn't a vision. It was…

She groaned.

It was her conscience delivering the mother of all bitch slaps and declaring victory, she realized. The message was clear: do the right thing or your sanity takes the hit.

She dropped her head to her desk.

"Are you okay?"

Her head jerked up.

Clark Kent knelt beside her chair – in the middle of a deadline. _I'm fine_ started on her lips and died unspoken at the look in his eyes. Blue. That riveting blue had shifted to an inhuman shade of cobalt. It was her nature to try to uncover what emotion was behind that color change. But her conscience was still holding a gun to her sanity so she quashed the urge in self-defense.

"Are _you _okay?" she asked quietly.

He looked surprised that she'd even asked. "What?"

Her eyes dropped to his torso. Dr. Dalton's voice echoed in her mind. _Mid-back, in the kidney region…if what we found there could be called a kidney. We took the fragment out but it didn't seem to do anything. He still just lay there on the slab. No hemorrhage, but no movement either. We were scared shitless.._ Her eyes came back up to his. "I interviewed the doctor who treated you." Understanding flooded his eyes.

Reactively, he looked away, embarrassed. She reached out, touched his face, and turned him back to her. "Does it still hurt?"

He just stared back at her, letting her touch him, and forgetting – or maybe choosing, she thought – not to shield the thoughts behind his eyes. He didn't have to tell her that in those few seconds he was feeling the stinging cut of everything in his life that still hurt.

It didn't occur to her that he could see into her too. At least not until later, when it was too late.

Suddenly she realized where her hand was and pulled it away. He blinked as if the separation of her skin from his was disorienting. But her eyes never wavered. "Does it?" she asked.

He smiled ruefully. _Only when I breathe_, he thought. "Only when you ask," he said.

"Oh." She should have left it at that, she thought. "Then maybe you should give me a reason to stop asking," she said.

Several emotions played across his face: amusement, astonishment, curiosity, apprehension, and regret, but only one stayed long enough for her to identify it. It washed toward her like seawater across sand, shaking her equilibrium and eroding the ground beneath her feet. She wished she hadn't seen it. She wished she knew why she had.

His smile widened but didn't become warmer. "I try," he said quietly. "But…." A flush slowly crawled up his cheeks. He looked down again as if trying to pull something up from inside himself. Abruptly he exhaled then stood and stepped back. And just like that, Mel could see his internal wall was back in place. He saw her noting his changes and quirked an eyebrow up. "I asked you first," he said lightly.

She stared back at him. His response was a hollow feint and they both knew it. But he was damned if he was going to admit it. Her eyes narrowed. He stood firm, refusing to duck her scrutiny. In the back of her mind, the sound of him hitting the earth echoed faintly. He was not going to revisit that moment, she decided. Not now. Maybe not ever. She gave up.

"I see," she breathed softly. She swiveled in her chair to face her computer as one hand grabbed for her briefcase. She pulled out the files and started sorting through them. Then she stopped. "No I don't see," she said. She looked down at her desk, avoiding the wall he'd erected behind his eyes. She lowered her voice so that only he could hear. "I'm not the one who should be asking you these questions. The one who should be doing it isn't here and when she comes back, she's not coming back for you. And it's _killing_ you. Whatever she did to you has left a hole inside you bigger than the crater you left in Centennial Park." She shook her head. "Everybody else sees you walking around, _flying_ even, and they think you're okay but I _know _you're not. Inside, I think you're still in that hospital bed trying to figure out how to get up."

She stopped. Her hands were shaking. She took a breath and chanced a glance at him. He hadn't moved. He couldn't. He was pale. She took another breath.

"Kent!"

Perry's bark sliced through the tension between them as he came barreling out of his office. Ignoring, Mel, Perry parked himself in front of Clark and pointed to his watch. "Did somebody suddenly come up with an exclusive with Superman? Is that why you're standing around while my deadlines come and go? Or am I missing something? Where the hell's my story Kent?! "

For a beat, Mel saw the frisson of tension ripple through Clark's frame. But in the next second the force behind his eyes shifted. He ducked his head and muttered something sufficiently contrite as he dove for the papers on his desk and followed Perry obediently to his office. She watched until the two men disappeared behind the editor's office door. Then she dropped her head into her hands. "Shit!" she muttered bleakly.

_Shit_, Mel muttered as she threw herself onto the sofa, grabbed the remote and turned on the TV. (_Forgive me, Lord_, she thought silently; she really had to get over her cursing habit – although she knew Carla probably would actually respect her if she didn't.) She shifted uneasily on the sofa and began compulsively channel-surfing. If her mind were together, she would have fixed breakfast, showered and dressed and gone over her notes before leaving for the airport. But doing that would have made it impossible for her to pretend that she wasn't going to have to spend a week in Gotham City on a fool's errand joined at the hip with Clark Kent. She needed to turn her mind off or at least turn it to a safer subject.

The blue light flickered across her face as the images slid past each other. She was looking for the classic movie channel, for a vintage black-and-white flick. It was a habit she'd adopted from childhood. She'd loved the old black-and-white images ever since she'd first watched them as a kid with her grandmother in Philly. Her sweetly devout grandmother had loved the 1930s and 1940s gangster flicks. Anything with Ernie Robinson, Jimmy Cagney or especially Humphrey Bogart meant an extra special movie night. They'd sit cuddled together on her big, old-fashioned high bed, wrapped in her afghan, while bullets and double crosses flew across the screen at equal speed.

Melanie hadn't been as big a fan of the gangster flicks – although she did like Bogey. Who didn't? But she'd preferred it when they'd stumbled across a Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers movie. No matter what the plot, there'd always come a point where Ginger, sparkling like an art deco princess, leapt across the screen into the arms of her tuxedo-ed prince, Fred. Even though they were shot in black and white, Melanie recalled, those movies glittered fiercely like falling stars. They'd taken her breath away. She'd wanted to jump into the screen and fly right along with them.

With a gasp, she dropped the remote.

That was why she… She squeezed her eyes shut. She took a deep breath, then another and another, trying to force her suddenly racing heart to slow down. Her heart obeyed but her mind didn't. And her body, caught between the two, propelled her off the couch. She needed to get up. She needed to move. She sped into her bedroom and threw open the closet doors. A suitcase and a garment bag were tucked side by side, already packed. Crap. No useful distraction there. She pounced on her briefcase, flinging it open and rifling through the contents. Digital recorder, check. Back-up tape recorder, check. Batteries, notepads, pens, check, check, check. Gotham City file, check. Superman file…

Slowly, like a balloon deflating, she sat down on her bed. From the center of her seemingly remote living room, came the muffled strain of Fred Astaire singing _Heaven, I'm in Heaven, and my heart beats so that I can hardly speak…_

She opened the file.

…_And I seem to find the happiness I seek…_

There it was, that infamous article, right on top: "I Spent the Night With Superman."

Even now – especially now – the headline made her cringe. This was supposed to be a news article for the Daily Planet not a page out of True Confessions. The whole text amounted to little more than Lois' breathless narrative of being taken for a joy ride by the newly minted 8th wonder of the world. And from a journalistic standpoint, there were too many holes. Lois had asked him where he'd come from but she'd never asked for the planet's exact astronomical location. She'd never asked him how he knew how to speak English and understood the idioms. Or why an alien would want to fight for the American way.

And the biggie had never even come up: How the hell did he get here? As the science writer, hell as a card-carrying geek, Mel knew there was no way to cross the massive distances in space without expending decades or centuries. Physicists were working on it and string theory held out hope for eventually breaking the light-speed barrier. But no technology could do it yet. No human technology anyway. Superman was in the prime of his life (at least from a human standpoint) so how had he gotten here? Did he come as a baby? Or did he travel as an adult? And if so, exactly what kind of propulsion system got him here? How long had he traveled through space? Did he travel in stasis or was he awake? Did he break light speed? And if he did, would he be willing to share that technology with Earth?

If Lois had thought to ask these questions, Mel knew, she might have learned about the Phantom Zone and Earth might have been a little more prepared when Zod and his cohorts arrived. Who knew what other Kryptonian survivors were out there?

Abruptly, she rubbed her arms. She didn't like to think about that. But she'd have to when she redid this interview. Perry was adamant about that. Although he didn't say it, Mel knew he realized he'd let too many things slide in Lois' reporting on the man in blue. Anyone else he would have hammered on to make sure they asked the tough questions, played Devil's Advocate. Superman, on the other hand, was the Planet's franchise, whether he liked it or not, and Perry wasn't willing to jeopardize that. At least, he wasn't before Lois got married.

Her expression grew thoughtful. Sherry was right. The door was open. The rules of the game had changed.

She glanced toward her living room. Fred had gone silent.

She grabbed the file and headed back toward the living room. She paused at her bookcase. Searching the titles, she reached out and snatched one off the shelf then settled on her couch. She turned the sound up. Fred and Ginger had given way to Linus and Sabrina. In another swath of grainy celluloid glory, a fetching Audrey Hepburn reached over to Bogart's hat and bent the brim of the fedora down. "I wonder if Clark ever wears hats," she murmured.

And before she could stop the thought, there it was, resurrected despite her efforts to kill it off and bury it inside herself. It had kept her awake then sent her ricocheting around her apartment trying to escape it.

_That_ was why she was drawn to Clark, she realized.

She sighed in defeat and turned off the TV. Turning on a lamp she brought the file closer to the light. Superman's – Clark's – face stared back at her from the photos that accompanied the collected articles. Like a scientist with a microscope, she examined the images closely. She scanned through the pages until she reached the one she was looking for. "Man of Tomorrow," the headline read. Underneath was a photo of Superman in his crimson and blue, every inch the embodiment of those words. She picked up the book she'd taken off the shelf. It was one of her favorites, a chronicle of the history of film. A yellowing newspaper article was tucked inside. Carefully she pulled it out and unfolded it. It was feature article on the then nascent Metropolis Film Festival, written years ago before she'd even joined the Planet. She placed it next to the Superman articles.

She shook her head. She couldn't figure out how he managed to do it.

Clark stood full length in the photo as he interviewed an aging starlet, Della Page. He was dressed in his usual conservative, three-piece suit. Della wore enough sequins, feathers and fur to give Norma Desmond a run for her money. Nevertheless, she was still beautiful. Age couldn't defeat that bone structure. Her famous heart-shaped face, soft and dewy in her youth, had been sharpened by age and adversity so that now the cheekbones stood out as sharply as cut glass. Her fawn-colored-complexion, both a dream and nightmare for cinematographers, remained unblemished. Never tall, she looked like a glittery doll next to Clark yet she dominated the photo as if she traveled with her own spotlight.

The photo was a violation of the Planet's editorial policy. Perry had a strict rule against reporters appearing in a story unless absolutely necessary. But the juxtaposition of the nerdy, strait-laced reporter and the elderly film diva was so outrageous clearly the photographer couldn't resist. Clark stood awkwardly next to the woman as she practically wrapped herself around him. Yet his smile seemed genuine.

Mel had clipped the article for the interview with the actress. She had been a favorite of her and her grandmother's. Della had been a firecracker in her day, a softer, curvier version of Dorothy Dandridge and had presaged _that _pioneering starlet by a decade. Unfortunately, that "day" was smack in the middle of the rough and ready 40s, 20 years before Sidney Poitier had managed to break the cinematic color barrier for Black actors. Before the Johnson White House had put Eartha Kitt on the exiled list for her too-honest comments on Vietnam, Della's equally explicit comments about Hiroshima had gotten her put on an anti-Communist crime boss' hit list. When the FBI failed to take the threat seriously, the frightened starlet had fled to Europe and off the screen for the next half-century. In the meantime, her name and visage had disappeared with her until the fall of the Berlin War, the worldwide embrace of capitalism and the death of the mafia don had made it safe for her to raise her head again. After all, what was there to fear from an aging acolyte of an obviously failed political system?

Clark's interview was the first time anyone in America had seen or heard from her in person in decades. True, this wasn't his usual story. At the time he'd had the crime beat. But the now-defunct threat against Della gave her a tangential connection to Clark's normal assignments, and he'd had the time, so he made the effort to interview her. Later Mel had found out that the assignment hadn't been that cut and dried.

At the time though, unconnected to the Planet or its people, Mel had excitedly called her grandmother to discuss it and sent her a photocopy. As always, her grandmother had rhapsodized over how much Mel resembled Della in her youth. The next time she'd visited, she had brought a slew of Della Page DVDs for a homemade film festival of their own and learned that her grandmother had pasted the article in the scrapbook she kept of Mel's articles and school photos.

Mel had shaken her head and ignored it just as she'd ignored Clark then. She hadn't known or cared who Clark Kent was. Now, all she cared about was understanding the connection between his image here and that of his other persona.

If photos were all anyone had to go on, they'd never make the connection on their own. Knowing what she knew now, it was hard to believe but the evidence was right there in front of her. Based on the photos she had, Superman was a blaze of glory that cut through their skies every night; Clark Kent was an ordinary human with a fun job that paid well. Other than physique and the fact that the Planet had a special advantage in covering Superman, there was no connection between the two. Yet, yet…even in those grainy newsprint photos she saw an earnestness in his eyes both when he wore the cape and when he didn't.

_That_ was why she was drawn to him, she thought again.

He was out of time like a black and white movie, those film noir fairy tales where everything was put right by a sharp dance routine or a well-aimed shot, although the thought of Clark Kent executing either made her laugh. She loved the clarity of those old movies. They were visually refreshing and a relief from the clashing colors and fast cut edits that characterized modern film. She knew her preference made her seem as old as her grandmother. She didn't care. As far as she was concerned, her grandmother's generation was onto something. They knew how to stay put, honor their marriage vows, get the job done and done _right_. Those films were like moving postcards from a generation where people still knew the difference between right and wrong and didn't pretend otherwise, even if they chose to do wrong.

When she thought of Clark she thought of another generation. He was like _My Man Godfrey_ meets _Bringing Up Baby_ meets Bogart, she thought. Or not so much Bogart, she amended, but more like George Bailey: possessed of that bone-deep goodness that could reduce a woman to putty in his hands if it ever occurred to him to try. Not that he'd have to try very hard if he actually thought about it, she thought ruefully. No wonder Della had been holding on so tightly!

Suddenly she shook her head vigorously as if trying to shake him out of it and laughed at herself a little. She was trying to get a grip on herself but she just couldn't.

She loved his name. It was crisp and clean like a freshly laundered shirt: all starched collars and cuffs and button-downed righteousness. You could trust that shirt with its tight stitches and double-sewn seams. He could be as precise and prosaic as a tailor or an accountant. The demands of being a reporter aside, he was steady and stable, a man a woman could trust. Only his physique hinted at more: Those brawny shoulders, that height. His manner might be meek, his self-assertion meager but his body certainly wasn't. No matter how much he stooped or apologized he just took up space. He couldn't disappear, become anonymous. There was simply too much of him. This whole week, when she'd bounced between wanting to throttle him and wanting to keep a minimum safe distance from him she couldn't stop her gaze from finding him. Whenever his attention was diverted she'd discreetly let her eyes trace the expanse of his shoulders, the dark sheen of his hair, the searing blue of his eyes. He was a handsome man who was completely oblivious to the effect of his own good looks. Mel wished _she _could be.

It had actually been this way – the few times she'd let her guard down – from the first time she'd seen him shortly after he'd returned to the Planet. To her baffled amusement, Jimmy Olsen – who seemed to be perpetually stuck at age 15, she thought – had had been giddily excited all the day before. She'd vaguely remembered a memo being sent out the week before announcing Clark's return, but since she didn't know him it didn't make much of an impression. Carla, however, had been smirking on and off the way she did when she had a particularly juicy office grapevine scoop. But Mel had steered clear of her. She had already passed her first anniversary and was coming up on her second and so had enough experience to know that when Carla was sitting on a scoop _somebody _was going to get hurt. Mel made it her business to avoid becoming collateral damage.

Unfortunately, that caution had proven useless. She and Clark had collided on the way to the microwave. His lunch had survived but hers had gone skidding across the floor and, to her surprise, they'd collided again as they both dove to chase after it. But the effort was futile. The Tupperware lid had been bumped loose in the fall and released a crimson wave of marinara sauce. He'd managed to stop short of stepping into it although she could have sworn she'd spotted a scarlet smudge on one of his Rockports. "Sorry," he'd muttered. Then he'd handed her his lunch. "I guess this is yours now," he'd added sheepishly. Still stunned by the collision, she'd let him dump his container in her hands without protest. She blinked as the chilled plastic on her palms snapped her out of her stupor. "I—" and before she could get a word out—

"Hey Mr. Kent, the chief is looking for you. Whoa –" Jimmy stepped back just in time to keep his shoes clean. "What happened?"

"I did," Clark admitted.

"Great! Just great! I've gotta wade through pizza sauce just to get a cup of coffee. What have you done now, Clark?" Lois Lane stood glaring from the kitchenette's opposite doorway, hands on hips.

Clark winced and glanced over at the coffeemaker. A good-sized dollop of marinara sauce floated serenely in the carafe. So much for that.

To Mel's surprise Jimmy had laughed. "I guess some things never change huh? Gosh, it's great to have you back! We've gotta do a guys' night out sometime." He looked back at the spreading sauce. "But first I'll call maintenance." He dumped his lunch bag on the counter and sped off to find a phone.

"Yeah and while you're at it why don't you get Perry to up the Planet's property insurance?" Lois muttered as she stomped off. Her voice faded in the distance as she shouted for the Planet intern. "Connie! I need you to make a coffee run, _now_."

Mel and Clark watched her go then turned back to face each other.

She took a breath. "Okay, I'm guessing you're Clark Kent," she said finally.

Still embarrassed, nevertheless he smiled – and something in her chest hitched. "Guilty as charged," he'd said.

That had been their first encounter. He'd been good looking enough to notice and thus, she'd decided in self-defense, safer to ignore no matter how klutzy he was. She wasn't there to find a date. She was there to start over.

She'd come to the Planet from the Detroit Record after slogging through three years on the labor beat. She'd covered the strikes, the bitter contract negotiations, the financial double-dealings, the corrupt politicians and the inevitable layoffs. She'd been shouted down by union bosses and corporate chieftains; she'd had her tires slashed; and she'd had her car windows smashed. Her editors had told her to suck it up but she was convinced that it was only the fact that she'd been dating a cop at the time that had kept her from facing anything worse. So when she'd heard about the opening for a science writer at the Planet, she'd leapt at the chance to escape. She'd dug out her clips on alternative energy and hybrid car prototypes and sold herself as hard as she could.

It had worked. Perry had called her with an offer on Monday. By Friday she was flying as far and as fast from the Motor City as she could. She wouldn't miss it. The people – at least the ones she _hadn't _been covering – were friendly but the frigid, rust-scarred landscape wasn't. That, combined with a relationship that had started demanding more than she had to give and an industry that was taking everything worth giving away from its workforce and she was ready to say goodbye.

Metropolis was a better alternative in almost every way. Unlike Detroit, it boasted a diversified economy of high tech enterprise and low-tech industry. It was on the Eastern seaboard. It was warmer. It was sunnier. All of which combined to banish the lonely Mid-western chill that, on some days in Michigan, she could have sworn had seeped into her bones. Moreover, it was closer to home. Whether she drove, took the train or flew, if her family needed her she could be in Philadelphia by the end of the day.

So she got her feet under her desk and settled in.

But, once he was back, Clark kept showing up on her radar.

It was impossible for him not to. He was part of the Daily Planet ground rules. Sherry had generously explained to her the unwritten playbook, which stated thusly: 1. Perry White's word was law; 2. Lois Lane was _the _star reporter by decree of Perry White; and if the Pulitzer hadn't given it away the next item would; 3. Superman trumped _any _story, even if it had been five years since anyone had actually seen him. And as the one all but officially acknowledged reporter in all of Metropolis, heck in the world, who could reliably get Superman's attention, Lois' position was unassailable. She was the queen of the Daily Planet.

One quirky addendum to third rule was that Clark Kent was Lois' court jester. If the incident at the microwave hadn't already convinced her, Carla would have. But she wouldn't have been alone. The remainder of the old guard, those who hadn't retired, been laid off or taken a buyout, still remembered his puppy dog devotion to Lois. Again, only now that she knew both his identities did Mel understand that.

Before that, though, that rule didn't set well with Mel. It'd seemed needlessly mean. But until now she'd never let herself examine why.

Pulling herself out of her thoughts she looked at the clock. Four a.m. Four hours until her flight. Silently, she gathered the Superman articles and returned them to the file. She looked at the article with the photo of Clark, hesitated, then added it to the file. Deserting the couch, she returned to her bedroom and restored the file to her briefcase. Briefly she considered breakfast but her stomach rebelled at the idea so she skipped it. Mechanically, she began laying out her clothes. Padding bare feet across cool tiles, she turned on the bathroom light and started the shower.

Gasping as the water hit her skin, she suddenly stilled as the thought played through her mind again.

_That _was why she was drawn to him.

That interview with Della hadn't been just a whim or a chance to connect to a possible source. Simone Elliott, the arts and entertainment editor had told her the story. The Metropolis Film Festival had been one of the first events held in the city in the wake of the devastation wrought by General Zod and his cohorts. The city was being reconstructed and the local elite had gathered to show it off the effort. But while they had envisioned a lighthearted celebration of the arts, the festival's organizers wanted to make the point that a new century was on the horizon; the old enmities and grudges no longer applied. Hence, they choose Della Page as the festival's guest of honor. No amount of threats or bribery could change their minds. So the powers that be settled on trying to impose a news blackout. Simone been warned away from Della because of the starlet's controversial political past. Even though Della was receiving a lifetime achievement award, Simone had been told to ignore that.

Mel had been shocked. Not at the action; she'd seen enough similar instances in Detroit to make her want to leave. But at the fact that Perry White had allowed it to happen. She'd thought Perry was tougher than that. After all what kind of threat could Della be now?

The order hadn't come from Perry, Simone had said. It had come from the money men. Back then the Planet, like a lot of newspapers then and now, had to walk a tight financial line. Layoffs had already happened although Clark had been spared. Nevertheless, stronger measures had to be taken to blot out the red ink and the Planet had taken on investors. Unfortunately, the new money came from a new group of conservatives with an agenda. They clashed constantly with Perry, (an old-style liberal newsman who believed in exposing the powerful whenever he could) increasing their attacks incrementally in an effort to gain ascendance. First they'd foisted a deputy editor on him who shared their positions. Then they'd looked for fodder over which to fight. Della Page was perfect. And Perry, with cold-eyed pragmatism, was inclined to save his powder for tougher battles. Although he hadn't given the direct order to ignore Della, he hadn't fought it either.

That order had divided the newsroom. Della had a lot of fans among the Planet staff. They ran the gamut from classic film buffs like Mel, to ex-peacenik activists to anti-censorship pros. But they were faced with an almost equal number of pro-Cold War hawks, anti-Communist fundamentalists and disillusioned seat-warmers. When a pro-Della copy editor had pasted a 1940s pin up of Della within prominent view, the argument that had erupted had nearly shut down the copy desk. A fluffy arts and entertainment story had turned into a war.

Simone hadn't recalled Clark taking any part in the fray. In fact, he'd seemed curiously distant in those days. He'd filed his crime stories and kept tripping over his feet as usual. Everyone had been caught off guard.

In the midst of the angst and drama, Clark had corralled Jimmy, gone to the film festival and interviewed Della. The actress had been delighted and touched by his interest. The feature had turned out to be a touching portrait of talent aging over time into a richly experienced human being whose personal evolution mirrored that of the country itself. And the Daily Planet had been the only major paper with the story. A few years later, that article would be cited and the photo used in a documentary retrospective on the Hollywood blacklist. A few more years on top of that, it would be cited in a Congressional hearing reviewing recently declassified government files that unequivocally exonerated Della and her fellow black-listers of undertaking any action to undermine the U.S. government. That last development would come too late for Della however. Her family had buried her eight months before.

At the time it had seemed to be such a trivial, such a frivolous thing for him to do. Even with the tangential connection to his beat, there was so much controversy around it at the office that it seemed foolish to risk so much for so little. What was there to gain? People on both sides of the issue had said he'd gone and pulled a Lois, flagrantly defying Perry in pursuit of a story. But where Lois did it for big investigative hits, Clark had done it for this.

He and Jimmy had come back to the office and filed the story and the photos with the night editor. When the story had appeared the next day Perry hadn't yelled – always a bad sign. He'd quietly called Clark into his office and shut the door. Twenty minutes later Clark exited – and, to general surprise, so had the deputy editor. Clark was on suspension. The news hit the office like wildfire. People were stunned both at Clark for flagrantly disobeying Perry's orders and at Perry for actually coming down so hard on him. Everyone had expected Lois to put in a good word for him but curiously Lois had been too distracted to plug in.

Shortly thereafter, Clark had left the Planet.

Mel shut off the water and stepped out of the shower. Wrapping a towel around her, she went to the sink and rubbed the condensation from the mirror. Her reflection stared back at her. She had Della's face, her grandmother said. She ran a hand through her hair. She wondered idly whether she should blow the natural kinks straight or just pull it back into a poof. She sighed. She didn't have the stamina for wrestling with the blow dryer. Besides it was already packed in her suitcase.

She pulled her hair into some semblance of neatness and control then pressed her hands on either side of her face as if trying to hold her thoughts in. She looked to her left out the window. The sun was rising. Golden haze spread slowly across the skyscrapers, etching them in shimmering silver, sharpening their resolution for a few brief moments before returning them to the obscurity of their usual gray.

_That_'s why she was drawn to him, she realized.

It wasn't his physique. Even now, it wasn't the power. It wasn't even the… in her mind's eye she saw him fall, streaking blue and red, out of the sky before he slammed into the ground. She drew a shuddering breath as the image incongruously changed to an ordinary man, a prosaic albeit good-looking man respectfully dancing attendance on another kind of fallen star. The two were the same thing, she realized. She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. _Did I do the right thing, _he'd asked her. That was why she was drawn to him. It was the certainty that, no matter what, no matter the temptation or provocation, no matter the potential loss, he would do the right thing or break himself trying.

_That _was why she loved him.


	3. Chapter 3

**LOVE'S DIVINE**

by Librasmile

**Author's Note: **_Whew! Holy moly! Finishing this chapter took an eternity (all puns intended :) )!_

_This is an UPDATED version of Chapter 3. The previous version did not have the last scene. This one does. Hence the update._

_**FAIR WARNING:**_ _T__his has some religious discussion in it. I'm trying to be ecumenical and have everyone's view presented as well as all sides of the argument. If I have misrepresented anyone's faith, I apologize in advance and will endeavor to correct it (as long as I'm not abused in the process____). There is also a mention of 9/11; fair warning if that issue bothers you. Then again you guys may never read it and the point may be moot.__But if you do read this please also review. I could use the encouragement!_

_**Disclaimer: **Once again, I do not own Superman, Lois, Richard, Perry or any other DC/Warner Bros. character. Mel and all other original characters are mine._

**Chapter 3 **

**Scene 1**

Facts were brutal, Lois decided.

Facts were ravening beasts that ate your heart out by their mere existence.

As a journalist, a Pulitzer Prize-winner no less, Lois knew her job was to hunt down facts. She had to tame them and wrangle them into an expose that forced the arrogant and powerful into doing the right thing.

But she felt powerless to right this wrong.

She looked around her with wary, weary eyes.

Shafts of sunlight shot through the broad windowpane that separated her from the paradise below. She let her gaze travel, through the glass, across the expanse of soft, ocher-colored sand that comprised the shoreline and out past the frothing waves to the horizon beyond.

She wondered if he were flying above her.

With a start, she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to banish the traitorous thought.

Beside her Richard groaned in his sleep and turned to face her. She forced herself to open her eyes and look at him. The sheet around him had slid down, exposing his naked torso and shoulders. His normally pale Metropolis complexion had darkened thanks to two weeks under the Bahamian sun. Shifting under the blanket she reached out and pressed her palm flat against his ribs. It felt good to look at him, touch him. Years of living the life of a war correspondent had lent his body a wiry toughness and definition that even his more recent past riding a desk at the Daily Planet couldn't eliminate.

He groaned again and his eyes fluttered open.

"Hey," he said sleepily.

She smiled, tentatively. "Hey."

He said nothing more, just looked at her.

She shifted her gaze away from his and pressed her other hand to his stomach. Richard lay still as she let both hands move across his body. Lois said nothing as she concentrated on feeling. Beneath her hands she could feel the heat of Richard's skin, the cords and muscles contoured from years of dodging bullets and bandits, the slight rise and fall of his body as it followed each breath. Without thinking, she moved to straddle him, pulling the sheet away to give her more access to his body. He shifted to let her, his hands sliding beneath her nightgown to grasp and caress her thighs, her hips. She leaned down to kiss him and he kissed her back. And before she realized it, Richard was sitting up, pulling her closer, and then pushing her back so he could lie on top of her.

The fact was she loved making love with Richard.

He had talked her – okay, argued her – into taking three weeks for their honeymoon because he knew once he got her to a secluded beach hideaway, there would be little to do at night except make love. Lois hadn't wanted to take the time. She'd thought two weeks was enough and besides she didn't want to be out of the news cycle for that long. Richard had stood his ground. He knew she had the time saved up. And he insisted that their marriage needed and deserved the time and attention to start it off right. Lois had lived with Richard long enough to know that he meant "time enough for plenty of sex" because if she were completely honest with herself, she'd be the first to admit that sex had always been the glue that kept her and Richard together.

They'd slept together the first night they'd gone out. It was shamefully fast, Lois knew, which is why she snarled anytime anyone of her friends or coworkers got close to uncovering that fact. Richard had transferred to the Planet in the wake of Superman's battle with Zod to assist Perry with managing operations. While the city and the Planet had been rebuilding, Lois had been feeling disoriented, dislocated. She had been told that Zod had kidnapped her and taken her to some place in the Arctic and Superman had rescued her but she had no memory of any of it. The whole episode with Zod was blank. Jimmy had shown her his photos of Ursa grabbing Lois and flying out the window with her but nothing in Lois' memory stirred. She was unable to write an article of her recollections because there weren't any. Perry and Jimmy had looked askance at her. She knew they feared Zod had done something so traumatizing to her that she'd blocked it out and so they'd treated her as if she was made of glass. Perry refused to assign her to any hard news stories and had actually ordered her to see a doctor and then go home to take a week off.

He'd made Richard escort her, which was how they'd gotten to know each other. Lois had been curiously detached from herself despite the mayhem going on around her as the city rebuilt itself. Richard had covered conflicts in Somalia, El Salvador and Palestine. He'd seen limbs blown off and faces burnt away in full horrific living color. He'd seen whole villages wiped off the map with all of its citizens still in the buildings. He'd seen happy, vibrant, courageous men and women turned into silent walking ghosts by what they had seen, heard or lost. The destruction wrought by Zod didn't faze him and neither did Lois.

Lois knew all this because he'd told her. She'd had nothing to say as he'd hailed them a cab and hopped in with her as they drove to her apartment. She'd stared at him in baffled detachment as he'd spent the ride prattling on and on about the wars he'd covered, the bullets he'd dodged. Bafflement had started to give way to annoyance when he'd kept talking as they rode in the elevator up to her floor. By the time she'd gotten to her door she'd felt her temper rising. What a prick, she'd thought angrily. The city's a wreck and all he can talk about is himself. Calmly, she'd unlocked her door, dropped her briefcase and turned around to face him. "Shut. UP!" she'd shouted. He'd blinked and then grinned at her. "Just wanted to make sure you were in there," he'd quipped. She'd stared at him, stunned. Then she'd burst out laughing.

He'd asked her out literally seconds later. She'd said yes. He'd been the first person to lift her out of the fog that had clouded her brain for days. And she'd always been a fan of chutzpah.

They'd gone out a week later. They'd gone to bed that night. She'd been only mildly shocked at herself. But better to be shocked, she'd thought, than continue in the haze that had claimed her before his arrival. They kept dating and a month later she'd realized she was pregnant. They'd moved in together. After Jason was born, they'd bought the house and gotten officially engaged. Now that they were finally married, people stopped raising their eyebrows at the length of their engagement. They stopped commenting under the breath at how convenient it was to be dating the nephew of the editor in chief. Their eyes stopped sliding her way whenever Superman turned up on TV or in real life.

At least she liked to think they did.

Because the fact was, she was now Mrs. Richard Oliver White. She was a married woman with a child and a home and a Pulitzer and professional and personal reputations to guard. The fact was Richard had pulled her out of a dangerous place years ago by not only making her feel alive but also reminding her that she actually _was _alive.

The fact was she would endure any amount of censure at being wrong in order to remain alive.

The fact was it didn't matter if waking up next to Richard – dear, fearless Richard – felt wrong.

The fact was she didn't have to stand on rooftops to find him or have her life threatened in order for him to show up.

But it was also a fact that not even Richard could fly.

Only one man could.

And it was a fact that her eyes kept searching the skies for that one man, even when she'd said her vows and placed her son in her mother's arms and left for her honeymoon. Her eyes looked out through the windowpane even as Richard surged inside her and made her call his name.

Because the fact was she still loved that one man.

**Scene 2**

"Lois, we had a deal."

Richard felt the back of his teeth grinding against each other as he struggled to remain calm. With a focused effort, he forced himself to relax, willing his clenched fingers to unfurl and forcing his limbs to slacken, become limber. He'd learned the lesson years ago as a war correspondent. Don't tense. Stay relaxed under fire. It conserved energy. It gave the body maximum ability to dodge bullets. Especially when they flew in from everywhere. He'd also learned that it was usually the bullet you didn't expect, the one you couldn't anticipate that was usually the fatal one.

But this wasn't one of those times.

He let the newspaper pages fall from his hands as he stared at Lois who returned his gaze without flinching.

"You know I'm right," she said stonily.

Without a flicker of – what was he expecting, Richard thought, doubt, remorse, shame? – Lois gathered up the discarded pages, flipped them over and folded them until the photo and headline lay on top. Superman in dramatic pose stared blankly back at them against a backdrop montage that incorporated Stonehenge, the pyramids at Giza and the megaliths of Easter Island. The layout was spectacular if overly dramatic, Richard thought. But that was the editor's side of him. The human side of him just wanted to hide it and then burn it later when Lois wasn't looking. But of course, he thought bitterly, he should have realized that Lois was _always _looking. She couldn't help herself. If there was a risk, a danger, a thrill in the vicinity she found it. – and turned it into one hell of a story. Which he could live with when it came to ordinary issues like nuclear terrorism. He could not when it came to _him_.

Lois slapped her hand down on the paper, pointing a finger at the headline. "Superman or Savior?'" she read. "Perry has got to be out of his mind. This series is going to destroy him. What the hell is he thinking?"

"I reiterate," Richard said firmly. "We had a deal. No work. Just play. For these three weeks you're _mine_."

Lois stared at him incredulously. "You owe Superman your life. You saved his. You can't just stand by and let this series go on any more than I can."

Richard looked away in frustration.

They were sitting at an outside table, only a few hundred feet from the surf as they ate breakfast under a Bahamian sunrise. Instead of leaving them sated, their earlier lovemaking had left both of them restless and eager to get out in the open air. Richard had suggested they charter a boat for some scuba diving. Lois had agreed and both were dressed in swimsuits underneath beach shorts and tropical printed shirts. Richard wore his sunglasses. Lois had shoved hers up into her hair.

Richard could feel Lois' eyes on him as she waited for his reply. He hated this. He knew she was right. On one level she was absolutely right. He could see the danger immediately. Some questions were so potentially damaging they should never be asked. Once you did, you began to realize you were standing on ice and it was cracking and the shore was a very, very long way away. Interrogating Superman's intentions was one of those questions. Despite all the good he'd done, people still doubted him, Richard knew. His five-year absence hadn't helped, especially in wake of the disasters that had happened in the meantime. People were still wounded and angry and looking for simple explanations, easy scapegoats. Superman was an easy and overwhelmingly attractive target. It was a thin line between love and hate after all, Richard acknowledged ruefully.

As for which side of the question he fell on when it came to Superman…Richard turned his face back to Lois.

Maybe the masses had no legitimate reason to blame Superman for their woes, but Richard knew his own situation was a different matter. It was personal. _Are you really going to tell me this is about loyalty to a friend and not an attempt to reclaim your idol,_ he wanted to ask.

But he knew some questions were too dangerous to ask.

**Scene 3**

"How the hell could you even think of doing something like this with Lois away? Geez, Perry."

Richard rubbed his hand through his hair and glanced out the window. From the hotel balcony he could see Lois pounding away laps in the pool. With the relentlessness of a metronome, she swam up one end and down the other. Richard sighed angrily and turned away, shifting the phone that nestled between his shoulder and ear.

On his end, Perry also sighed and pinched his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. "First, I'm the editor-in-chief and I can do anything I damn well want."

Richard rolled his eyes.

"Second," Perry continued, "It's a legitimate story. We've never really sat down to examine the implications of Superman's presence here. Look what happens when he's not here. The Twin Towers go down. Look what happens when he _is_ here. We get a whole new planet. What's it all mean? We're a newspaper. We may not be able to figure it all out but we can damn sure ask the questions. That's what we do!"

Richard could feel his teeth grinding together. "I'm not arguing that, Perry. I'm talking about the _timing_. Don't tell me you honestly thought Lois wouldn't see a newspaper while we were away, honeymoon or not. What the fuck did you think this would do to us?"

Silence echoed through the other end of the line. Richard flinched as it stretched out further and further.

"Look, Richard," Perry said finally. "I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?"

Richard took a breath. What _did _he want Perry to do? He knew as well as Perry did that Superman was a legitimate news story. He was also good for the paper's bottom line. Richard knew if he had been anyone else complaining about this series, Perry would have handed him his ass in short order. Journalistic ethics – not to mention pride – would have demanded it.

But he and Perry were family. Perry had done more for him than his own father could have or would have done. The Whites weren't a wealthy family. Anything they got they had to scrap and struggle and strive for. Both Richard and Perry had grown up solidly lower middle class, wealthy enough to be raised in a family-owned house but insecure enough that fears of missing a mortgage payment were a regular side dish with s regular a staple as Sunday dinner. Perry had come up in the newspaper business the hard way. He'd worked his way through state college, clawed his way up from the police beat to the national desk then moved over to the editing side, constantly pushing to get to that editor-in-chief's chair. Along the way he'd done the improbable: he'd won the hand of Hudson Valley heiress Miriam Tuttle. Her family had decried the match but the iconoclastic Miriam didn't bat an eye. She married her man and Perry had been sitting in the lap of domestic luxury ever since. Although his colleagues had derided – and not all of them jokingly – his upscale marriage, Perry had simply thanked God for his good fortune. Moreover he took care to spread the wealth around, at least where Richard was concerned. Perry and Miriam never managed to have children of their own so Richard became the next best thing. When Richard needed a car to get him to his after school job, Perry got him one. When Richard needed tuition for the Ivy League college that had accepted him Perry paid. When Richard needed someone to contact the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta to negotiate for his freedom from the local terrorist group, Perry had called.

After everything that Perry had done for him, Richard felt he had to repay him. That was one of the reasons he'd become a journalist in the first place. That was also the reason he'd finally given in to Perry's exhortations, come in from the field and taken a job as an editor at the Planet. And if he ever felt courageous enough to think about it fully, Richard would also admit that was one of the reasons he'd first pursued Lois. Lois was the Planet's star reporter. In his own gruff way Perry looked after her. So Richard pitched in to help. He hadn't expected the relationship to go this far. He hadn't expected his feelings to go so deep. Too deep for him to get out. It was sink or swim time.

Richard rubbed his forehead, thinking.

"You know how it is with her, Perry. She can't get him out of her system. And she's tried. I know she has."

"Are you sure about that?"

"What the hell does that mean? Just what the hell are you trying to say?"

"I'm saying that it's crunch time, Richard. You knew what Lois was about when you married her. You knew she had the Man of Steel tucked in her closet. Most men wouldn't have touched her with a 10-foot pole, not when they had to compete with memories of Superman."

"But he was gone," Richard whispered.

"That was months ago," Perry snapped. " Before last year, every person on this planet would have bet their first born that Superman wasn't coming back. And now those same people, the ones who limped along and put their lives back together after 9/11, they'd tell you they couldn't imagine a world without him. Suck it up, Rich. He's back. And it's either him or your marriage. What are you going to do about it?"

Richard's gaze returned to the window and the pool below. Lois had gotten out of the water, wrung out her hair and was wrapping a towel around herself. As he watched, she went over to her beach bag and pulled out a cell phone. Who the hell was she calling, he wondered. Or was she checking a message? Who the hell would call her while she was on her honeymoon? As she held the phone in one hand the other searched compulsively through her bag until it froze, the tendons in her arm tensing. Her eyes skipped guiltily up to their bedroom window and Richard quickly stepped back behind the gauzy curtain. A second later a cigarette was tucked between her lips. Pulling deep as if sucking in water from a desert oasis, Lois inhaled the nicotine-laden smoke, her phone tucked between her shoulder and her ear. And somehow Richard felt as if a wall had gone up between them.

"I'm going to fight," he said finally. "If I have to tie Kryptonite around her neck, I'm going to fight."

"Okay then," Perry said. "You do realize though that it's not Superman you have to keep away but the other way around?"

"You're just chock full of painful truths today aren't you," Richard replied bitterly.

Perry paused. Richard could sense he was weighing his next words carefully.

"You're a good man Richard," he said carefully. "And you're good for Lois. But everything breaks eventually."

Prickles of cold sweat rose along the back of Richard's neck.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing is perfect in this world, Richard," Perry explained. "Everything and everyone has their breaking point: people, places, relationships. To hold onto Lois you've got to break that man's hold on her. So find the weak spot and press hard, until it breaks."

Richard stood in silence, trembling. Could he do that, he wondered. Before he could reply, Perry added, "Just make sure you don't break yourself in the process."

**Scene 4**

Charades. Mel hated charades.

"Okay, how are going to make this believable?" she asked.

Her hand with the mascara wand paused halfway to her eye as she waited for his answer.

When none came she walked to the bathroom door and scanned the bedroom for him. Clark – why was she still thinking of him as Clark, she wondered – stood staring out the window, hands shoved into his pockets. He wore a tuxedo. Mel wasn't a fashion plate but from the way the cut of the jacket fit his shoulders and waist even she could tell that the suit had been custom-made. That gave her pause. Clark Kent in a custom-made tux, she thought. It was almost a non-sequitur. Lois had a reputation around the office for teasing Clark and calling him Smallville, but it really was true. There was such a small-town earnestness about him, in this persona at least, and it showed in what he wore. After months of seeing him in multiple variations of preppy it was jarring to see him clad in such debonair style.

But she had to admit he wore it well. The midnight hue of the jacket and trousers matched the sable color of his hair and both provided a striking contrast to the snowy white of his collar and cuffs. Automatically her eyes fell to his shoes. They were spit-polished. How earnest, she thought. Then she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling.

"My father always made sure I shined my shoes."

She looked up startled. He hadn't turned back but he was watching her. As she looked up she could see her image, standing slightly off to one side of his, in the windowpane. The blackness of the night sky intensified their reflections even as the glass allowed the sparkling lights of the Gotham skyline to shine through. The effect was eerie as if they stood suspended together in midair. And without knowing why Mel held her breath.

Maybe it was because he was breathtaking, she realized a second later. He hadn't bothered to wear his glasses since they'd checked in. She supposed he thought that when they were alone together what was there to hide. But the effect of him without them…

Without moving she noticed his eyes were taking in her appearance as well.

They were both dressed formally. Wayne Enterprises was having a reception for the visiting Dai Lai Lama and Perry had decided one of them should interview him for the series. Since Mel had already been scheduled to attend in order to meet and hopefully interview Commissioner Gordon, Clark had volunteered. Press clearance however hadn't excused either of them from the dress code. The event was formal with the city's elite in attendance and the two reporters would have to fit in.

A dedicated dungarees girl off duty, Mel had rummaged through her closet and pulled out the only thing she had – the red silk dress she'd bought for last year's Christmas party. It was sleeveless, sleek and floor length. The v-neck was accentuated by a plain collar that was meant to lay over the collar of a short-sleeve jacket that went with the dress. She'd purchased the outfit for its versatility. With the jacket on her image was feminine but businesslike. With the jacket off, her body, a generous hour-glass figure which her grandmother had extolled but she had hated in her diet-conscious teen years, was shown off to its best advantage. Last year she'd worn the jacket. Tonight she wouldn't. Instead she'd chosen a silvery chiffon shawl. Red sling-back heels and crystal earrings and bracelet completed the outfit. And earlier she'd blow-dried the natural kinks of her hair straight and pulled it back into a chignon. She looked polished, a reasonable facsimile of the upper class. And that was point – to blend in like any other guest.

But she didn't feel anonymous. If she'd been alone she would have said she felt beautiful. But with Clark there watching even as it looked like they were suspended in the sky, she felt…exhilarated…and exposed.

Then he broke the illusion by turning.

"And my mother gave me the tux," he added succinctly.

Inexplicably shaken, Mel laughed, relieved at his light tone. "Isn't it a little racy for a gift from mom – not that she doesn't have excellent taste?"

He placed a hand on his lapel as if he'd just noticed how stylish it was, as if the thought had just occurred to him. He shrugged. "When I got my first national byline, my mother was convinced I'd win a Pulitzer. She got me the tux so I would fit in."

"But it's not really you," she mused. She couldn't tell if she were speaking to him or to herself.

He folded his arms across his chest and quirked an eyebrow. He was smiling but as she moved closer she could feel the tension coming off him in waves.

"Why do city people always assume us farm folk won't know which fork to use?"

Recovering, without thinking, Mel quipped, "Well if you don't know you could always fake it."

Something…roiling flared in his eyes and died down again. "Speaking of faking it," he said slowly. He uncrossed his arms and moved to walk around Mel. She turned to watch him as he seated himself at the desk that every hotel everywhere always seemed to provide for its guests. One hand fell on the notes they'd made earlier in the day. His gaze turned thoughtful as he placed the other one hand over his mouth. As if he's afraid of the words that might come out, Mel thought.

He took a breath then spoke. "The interview is set."

Abruptly Mel tensed as sharp prickles of adrenaline moved up and down her spine. She sped over to him, the panels of her dress fluttering out behind her.

She should have been relieved. After all this meant she didn't have to go skulking down back alleys searching for the Dark Knight. She should have known the two men would communicate with each other. But she wasn't relieved. From everything she'd read about him, Gotham's avenging angel seemed to have a darker almost malevolent energy surrounding him. She wouldn't expect that type of energy to come from a man who gave anything away for free. If Clark could arrange this interview so easily, that must mean the two men were allies. But were they also friends? Agreeing to this interview when there seemed to be nothing for him to gain from it bespoke a generosity that seemed to indicate friendship. But appearances weren't always what they seemed. If the two men were friends, she wondered what if anything this was costing Clark in terms of that friendship. What did he have to give in return? And what were the repercussions if she somehow botched this interview?

"When do we meet?" she asked.

"Tonight, during or after the reception. I don't know which. It'll depend on precisely when he can get there. I'll alert you when he is. You'll have to slip away to meet him while I keep the Commissioner distracted."

She nodded, her mind already going over the list of questions she'd prepared.

"However, there's one caveat."

Mel perched one hip on the side of the desk, swinging one leg back and forth as she waited for him to continue.

"Commissioner Gordon isn't thrilled. He thinks this is a ruse for some kind of investigative piece. He doesn't appreciate the possibility that reporters from outside his home turf could be working on an expose that he doesn't know anything about.

"So he could be a problem," Mel said. "Do you think he'll try to interfere?"

His free hand moved restlessly across the papers. "It's hard to say. He trusts Batman but…"

"You and I are strangers," Mel finished. "Understood."

"It's more than that. From what I understand, it wouldn't be beyond him to have surveillance planted just to get a bead on what's going on. If he gets the slightest whiff of how we arranged this--"

"Don't worry," she said firmly. "I've done my share of acting to get a story. You'd be amazed what kind of survival skills you pick up when you've been stalked by union-busters. I'll be okay as long as he shows up."

"He will," Clark said grimly.

Mel paused at his tone. "You don't sound too happy about that."

He shook his head, his lips pressed thin. "There's nothing to be happy about. This is a mess that I never should have let happen."

Mel bristled but carefully kept her tone neutral. "Are you talking about the series or the night in my apartment?"

He turned his full gaze on her. Once again she could see the wall going up and immediately she regretted her words. But it was too late. The question hung in the air between them. And it had become the entry point to the conversation they should have had the morning after.

He clasped his hands together and rested his head against them. "I don't regret you knowing," he said honestly. He stopped and blinked as if the realization surprised him. He shook his head again. "But if anyone else finds out…" he paused. "If I _let _anyone else know," he amended, "then I'll just make it worse. You're a target now; do you understand? And it's my fault and there's nothing I can do about it."

Mel opened her mouth then closed it. She wrapped her arms around herself. "It can't be that bad," she started.

"Oh no?" he countered. "Then why did you spend a week _furious_ with me?"

Mel opened her mouth again. Again nothing came out. She closed it.

"You know what I'm talking about," he said quietly.

And she did. The whole world did. It was in the papers. It was in the history books. Nom. Ursa. General Zod. The three Kryptonian war criminals had stormed across the planet killing everything in their path. Wherever Superman had been during their first bloody appearance, he'd more than made up for his absence when he defeated them later. But looking into his eyes she could tell he didn't believe that. He felt guilty, as if he believed their presence, the destruction they wrought was his fault. And it was a guilt powerful enough to break through his internal wall and make itself visible. She knew why. Lois. They'd taken Lois because Lex Luthor had told them she was his "favorite." He'd gotten her back in one piece, physically. But, if Jimmy Olson could be believed, something inside Lois had changed. And shortly after that Superman had disappeared for five long years.

And Mel _had _been angry with him. It wasn't fair but she had. Mel wasn't a fool. The minute she'd realized who he was, she knew she'd stumbled into moral quagmire. She didn't want the responsibility of knowing. It was bad enough that the knowledge had brought a whole new level of trauma to the memory of seeing him falling out of the sky. But what made it worse was that her conscience wouldn't let her walk away.

It would've been easy to close her eyes and let him fly out of her window so they could both pretend it never happened. If she never spoke to him again, aside from the impersonal etiquette of "good morning" and "pardon me," she knew she could almost make herself believe it never had. But she'd be lying to herself.

Moreover, so would he and he was in trouble. There was no other explanation for him being so careless. Or for his coming out from behind his wall, however fleetingly, to talk to her, to reveal anything about himself. Whether he had fully accepted it or not, he was in trouble and she…she couldn't ignore that.

Still, it wasn't fair that she seemed to be the only person who could see it.

Her mind skipped briefly, guiltily to Lois. How the hell could she not see this, Mel thought angrily. In her frustration she almost blurted out that very question but the look in his eyes stopped her. She shivered, goose flesh rising on her skin. She rubbed her arms. Reporters lived on questions. There wasn't supposed to be any question they were afraid to ask. But Mel couldn't suppress the feeling that if she asked that question out loud, something inside him, something that was already strained and cracking, would break. It wasn't fair. But that's the way it was.

"I wish…" she said suddenly. But before she could complete the sentence, he interrupted her, grabbing her hand.

"Don't," he said somberly.

Mel stared at him. In the second it took him to speak he seemed to have aged somehow.

He shook his head ruefully. "Don't wish."

**Scene 5**

Mel was wrong, Clark decided. God didn't give rest stops. He just gunned the motor and dared you to hold on.

Clark was motionless as his eyes searched the room. Anyone watching him would have seen a well-dressed man with his brightly laminated press credentials suspended from a chain around his neck. He held his notebook and recorder primed and ready as he scanned the room with detached, professional interest, presumably seeking his next interview target.

He remained still as people flowed around him in the crowded atrium that constituted the top floor of the Gotham Science Institute. With a black-and-white marble-tiled floor; a series of floor-to-ceiling glass-paneled French doors that framed the Gotham skyline; and a domed ceiling decorated with a gilt-edged mosaic, the room's ornate décor rivaled – and Clark suspected, was partially inspired by – the sumptuous faux-gothic structures built by the industrial barons of the gilded age. The surroundings couldn't compare to the splendor of the company, however.

Clark stood surrounded by a dizzying array of clerics. Priests, ministers, rabbis, imams, monks Christian and Tibetan had all come to pay their respects to the Dailai Lama who was visiting Gotham at the invitation of the local World Affairs Council. Bruce Wayne had engineered the invite. His reasons were purely—well mostly—personal. During his travels in Asia, Bruce had become acquainted with the teachings of the Buddha. A committed agnostic, he'd nevertheless found something in that creed that fed his soul. So when the Tibetan leader had begun a tour of the United States, Bruce had issued a personal invitation for the cleric to visit Wayne Manor. Unfortunately, the gossip columnists—ever on the prowl to discover what the billionaire playboy would do next—had ferreted out the information and gleefully spread it through the media. To calm ruffled social feathers Bruce had been forced to deny that the invitation had been merely personal. The World Affairs Council, ever anxious to please big sponsors like Wayne Enterprises, duly issued an invitation for a reception at the Gotham Science Institute. With Bruce footing the bill, the Council had rapidly found catering, entertainment – in the form of a subdued jazz quartet – and a guest list a mile long.

The clerics were only half the story, however. A whole cross-section of Gotham's secular elite was also in attendance. Whatever some of his interview subjects declared, Clark knew the majority of them weren't here out of any religious feeling. They came to see and be seen as they sashayed past each other and strategically – for the photographers – paused to admire the spectacular view. Admittedly, a few had come out of genuine spiritual interest. Most, however, were business people who couldn't pass up a chance to possibly gain personal time with Wayne Enterprise's majority stockholder. There were also the diplomats scattered around the room at discreet junctions, waiting for an opportunity to gain insight on the spiritual leader's political position vis-à-vis Tibetan-Chinese relations. There were Clark's bored and rapacious colleagues from the Gotham Post-Times, eager for a political or social gaffe to spice up their blogs. And there were the social butterflies that merely hoped to score points among their peers.

The mass of people constituted a patchwork quilt of cultures and creeds and their clothing reflected it. Gathered saffron-hued robes mingled with crimson satin tunics, buff-colored turbans and the blue, black, and white habits of various local Catholic orders. Sparkling sequins, custom-tailored tuxedos and scandalously cut dresses created a distinctly worldly counterpoint. If he chose to, Clark knew he could see beneath the fashion to the flesh, blood and bone underneath. He could see what was sucked in, pumped up, filled out or tucked in to hide the flaws or reveal the assets of each wearer. He was used to the casual illusions humans adopted in order to navigate their lives. He'd learned to turn his extrasensory vision off or overlook what he saw.

But it was much harder to ignore what he heard.

It should have been easy. No matter how Perry had spun it, this was a fluff assignment. Since he and Mel were already going to be in Gotham on a fool's errand chasing down Batman, Perry had added this event to their schedules. Normally, this was Sherry's beat. But in light of the stir – and sales – the Superman series was already generating, he'd expanded the budget and put Sherry on a plane to London to interview the leader of the Anglican Communion. Perry believed a quote from the Buddhist leader would add to the global perspective he'd mandated for this series. So Clark and Mel had donned their glad rags and gone to the party. Earlier in the evening they and their counterparts from other media outlets had fenced with publicists who had relentlessly explained over and over that the cleric would not be commenting on relations between China and Tibet. No amount of respectful cajoling on Clark's or any other reporter's part had pushed the Lama away from his stance. The futile exercise had only confirmed that there was no hard news happening here tonight.

At least not officially.

Clark couldn't suppress the reporter's instinct to try to dig up something, so he'd conscientiously interviewed as many people as would talk to him. The social caliber of the guests increased the odds he would hit some kind of pay dirt. The guest list included judges, CEOs, state and local politicians. Any one of them could offer some sound bite or nugget of information to enhance any one of several stories he was working on.

He sighed. If he kept standing here like a statue, he realized, someone would begin to wonder if he'd taken his medication today. He started to amble gingerly through the crowd. In addition to possible interview subjects he'd been searching for Mel. If he'd wanted to, he could have found her in two seconds using his X-ray vision. But he was never 100 percent sure that the radiation he emitted could harm humans so he was reluctant to use it unless absolutely necessary.

He might have been wasting his energy – except that his hypersensitive ears had started picking up multiple versions of the same theme. As he'd moved through the crowd, he'd slowly come to an uneasy conclusion. They were talking about him, every single one of them.

"You've got admit it, he's _hot_."

"Please, he's a boy scout."

"Have you _seen _him in that spandex?"

He stopped short as those words reached his ears. It was only then that he realized he'd been moving blindly, with no destination in mind, his search for Mel forgotten. He focused his hearing and listened, his eyes instinctively seeking the source. He found it almost instantly; a group of Paris Hilton look-alikes, barely legal and just as scantily clad, huddled together, gossiping and picking apart their fellow guests.

"Well I prefer Batman anyway."

"Sure if you like psycho-lite."

The young socialite stared innocently back at her companions. "What? At least he's human. Besides dark, brooding guys are _hot_."

"Unh huh, they have their uses."

"Like what?"

"Well Superman is the one you bring home to mom and Batman is the one you take to the dungeon and ride until the straps snap."

The women erupted in squeals of scandalized laughter.

Unexpectedly, laughter bubbled up in Clark's throat. With an effort, he quashed it. Of course they'd prefer Batman, he thought. At this moment _he'd _prefer Batman. He would prefer to _be _him at any rate. The Dark Knight's persona wasn't being ripped to shreds by a nationally distributed newspaper. And his psyche wasn't spinning overtime trying to cope with all the long buried regrets and self-doubts the series was resurrecting.

"Ooh, I'd like to see that movie!"

So would I, Clark thought as he felt the blood rushing to his face, as long as I didn't have to live this one. Clark's shoulders shook in shocked, silent laughter.

"Hmm, now that you mention it, I wonder if Supes has a girlfriend?"

Abruptly he sobered.

"What? You trying to audition for the part?"

"Well if he's open to that kind of thing. Wasn't he hot on that reporter chick a while ago?"

"Oh yeah! Huh. I'm guessing she didn't wait around for him to come back. I mean come on, tick tock, gotta watch that biological clock, you know?"

Clark exhaled sharply, all mirth gone. He hastened to put distance between himself and the women. But as he reached the next cluster of guests, his relief evaporated.

"Come on, he's America's patron saint."

"You're kidding right?"

"Why not? He's practically the patron saint of Metropolis anyway."

"Oh he's no saint. Where the hell was his ass on 9/11?"

_Flying through space on a mission to nowhere_, Clark had thought ruefully, hunching his shoulders as he slid discreetly past the group of Scotch-swilling junior vice presidents. Not that different from his assignment tonight, he added to himself as he silently wished for the umpteenth time that he could turn off his heightened hearing.

Back before, when he'd thought there was still a sliver of hope, he'd told Lois that he could hear everything. Even in the upper reaches of the atmosphere, even in space, he could hear the whole range of love, anger, joy, and grief the human voice could convey. He heard the howls of criminals and victims alike. He heard the secrets whispered in the dark. He'd heard their curses and benedictions. He recalled a verse from his childhood Sunday school lessons: _Faith cometh by hearing_. And if it were true, he wondered if overhearing could do the opposite.

It was less that he was the topic of conversation but that each successive conversation he overheard seemed to be tearing him into tinier and tinier pieces. The gossip was nothing. But if the views of this crowd were any indication, public opinion, which had been gratifyingly positive in the immediate aftermath of his fall, was turning negative. Mel would have argued otherwise. Bruce would have dismissed him as paranoid. But this was a high-powered crowd with more than a few politically influential people present. What _they _thought had the potential to erode the public's trust in him and hinder his actions in ways he feared to contemplate.

This shouldn't have mattered. He was neither a celebrity nor a politician. He didn't do what he did in order to gain applause. As Jor-El and Jonathan had taught him, virtue was supposed to be its own reward. But no matter how he tried to rationalize it and accept it, it still hurt. Inexplicably, he couldn't say why. Maybe it was the sense that this night was rapidly devolving into God's test drive to see just how far Clark's sanity could go before it snapped. Or maybe it was the sense that he was somehow becoming the butt of God's cosmic joke.

He ignored the tightening in his gut and shook himself out of his reverie. With a concerted effort, he narrowed the focus of his hearing down to whatever person was right in front of him and resumed pressing through the crowd. The main event of the evening was over. The Dailai Lama had long since returned to his hotel suite, which meant that Mel and Clark were free to decide what to do with their time. Unable to spot Mel, Clark headed toward a group of clergymen, seeking refuge from this sonic minefield. But his heart fell almost as soon as he reached them.

"He's no hero. He's a trap, an alluring deceptive trap. Mark my words, brothers and sisters, if you put your trust in him, you summon your own damnation."

Clark froze. This comment he didn't have to overhear. The words were spoken loud and clear. Collectively the people gathered around the speaker gasped and exchanged uneasy glances. Although most were clergy, none had come for a sermon let alone a polemic. The rent atmosphere rippled through the group and made itself felt beyond it. Across the room conversations paused and heads turned.

The man smiled beatifically as he felt the focus of the room shift toward him. There was something underneath the smile, Clark thought, which was at odds with the cross pinned to his lapel. As the man continued to speak, Clark felt the bile rise in his throat and his field of vision began to shimmer like heat rising.

"I _don't_ trust him and I never did," the speaker continued. "It's about time the media woke up to the damage he could do. I just hope the world wakes up with them. They need to understand what he really is."

"And what is that?" It was only after the words had left his mouth that Clark realized he'd spoken.

The man leveled flinty gray and somehow familiar eyes on Clark. "A minion of the prince of the power of the air."

One man threw up his hands in exasperation. "Oh come on, even you can't believe that!" he said.

"I'm a man of faith," the gray-eyed man retorted. "I don't say it if I don't believe it."

"Are you seriously telling me you believe he's the devil's minion?" the second man countered.

"He shoots _fire_ from his _eyes,_" gray eyes thundered. "What kind of _thing_ does that?"

Clark flinched as if struck. Shocked speechless, he dutifully scribbled down the quote. He took care to squeeze his eyes shut and will his vision to clear before looking up again. As he did he could see that many of the guests scattered around the room or on the furthest periphery of their circle were once again frowning and turning their way. They were too far away to have heard what had just been said, but even they could feel the strained energy radiating from this smaller gathering.

Clark willed his expression to remain bland and neutral. He'd certainly picked the right group to cover, he thought ruefully. Perry would be thrilled; this poisonous diatribe would certainly make a salacious addition to the series. Whatever he felt, whatever turbulent emotion surged in his chest, Clark forced himself to hold it in. He struggled to remain detached – or at least give the appearance of it. With shaking hands, he held his tape recorder in one hand, rested his notebook on top of the device and took notes with the other. And then he almost dropped both as his memory kicked in.

He knew this man.

Or rather he knew of him. He was Roy Fischer, formerly known as Rev. Roy. Once a church pastor, he had traded in the pulpit for a CEO's desk. He was now the owner of a religious radio network that was rapidly swallowing up its competition in the Northwest and Southeast. Also popularly known as the King Fish, his talk show, "The King Fish Hour," was frequently denounced by the liberal end of the media spectrum as being nothing more than a political tool masquerading as a daily homily. It offered an inflammatory mix of politics and religion wrapped in a celebration of patriotism. It was, Perry had said, a big hit with the "grits and guns crowd."

When he had temporarily filled in on the political beat, Clark had had to listen to the show in order to monitor that part of the electorate. What he'd heard then had chilled him. Rev. Roy presented a calm, folksy, avuncular presence in the media. In person he was a lanky gray-haired grandfatherly presence. As a concession to the upscale crowd at this event, Fischer wore a crisply tailored tuxedo. But peeking out from beneath his jacket were a pair of cheerful cherry-red suspenders – and a gold chain that could only belong to a pocket-watch. Despite his elegant carriage, Fischer looked like he'd be more comfortable in a pair of overalls topped with some well-worn flannel. Clark wouldn't have been surprised to find him manning the hardware store or driving a pickup down the main strip in Smallville.

But Fischer's cozy manner belied the rapacious intelligence in his eyes.

The left wing of the political community usually dismissed him as a bigoted blowhard with too little tolerance and too much influence. But Clark knew from his research that Fischer was hardly as simple as that. The man held advanced degrees in theology and law from Harvard and both the will and the access to use them. He had used his radio network to build a parallel grassroots network ("Huh, more like Astroturf," Perry had snorted) of supporters. They were willing to vote in, campaign for or boycott against whomever or whatever the King supported or condemned. And now Superman was in his sights. Fischer's commentary had caused an uproar here and abroad. And the man had sat calm and unruffled in the center of storm.

His standard tactic when reporters challenged his comments and motives for making them was to fall back on the pose of being a simple man of the cloth, albeit without a church. Among the power set – many of whom were here tonight – he had an altogether different demeanor. Then, as now, he bared his teeth, letting onlookers get a hint of just how deeply he could bite before they decided whether to take him on. The technique had brought him as many allies as enemies. Actual and potential enemies took due note and planned their counter-attacks accordingly. Actual and potential allies, cowed at the probable high cost of battling him, attempted to neutralize the threat he presented by cozying up to him. Meanwhile, the uncommitted looked on in wary fascination.

With a speed that had even surprised Perry, Rev. Roy had pounced on the Daily Planet's Superman series. While Fischer's listenership took an unaccustomed jump (Perry had pulled the numbers as a selling point to the Planet's advertisers) he read excerpts over the air, while putting his own derisive spin on it, a spin he relentlessly expounded on now. In Rev. Roy's narrative, Superman was "a cancer that needed to be excised before he completely corrupted the body spiritual and politic. The presence of that much power in one being constitutes a temptation to sinners and backsliding believers disenchanted with the actual living God," he decreed.

Clark felt the breath hitch in his chest but forced himself to remain impassive as Fischer continued his diatribe. Mentally however, he kicked himself. Why hadn't he been more prepared to face something like this? Reflexively, his eyes scanned the crowd beyond Fischer. To his diagonal left, he saw Bruce, arms folded as he chatted with one of his guests. Gotham's favorite son was similarly clad in a custom-made tuxedo. He wore it with a bemused cynicism and flair that Clark could never hope to emulate, even if he wanted to. But Clark knew, from the hard cast of his features and the slight narrowing of his eyes that Bruce was missing none of the dynamics of Fischer's lecture, even if he couldn't hear it. To the far right, Clark caught a glimpse of silver fringe trailing against a swath of red chiffon. Mel. The tightness in his chest eased. He turned his attention back to Fischer.

"This being is nothing but a snare to wrench humankind away from the path to true salvation," Fischer continued.

A soft voice drenched in the sibilant accents of India, interjected. "But he preserves life. Surely a man who does so much good could never be an enemy of God, my friend."

Fischer's eyes flickered briefly to the elegant turban worn by the Sikh before looking at the man himself.

"A wolf in sheep's clothing," Fischer countered calmly. "An angel of light. How do we know he's not biding his time, lulling us into a false sense of security before he reveals himself for what he truly is?"

"And that would be?" Again the words had escaped Clark before he'd even known he would say them.

Fischer's eyes swung his way, openly measuring, lingering on the press pass slung around Clark's neck before rising to meet Clark's eyes.

"Clark Kent."

The hairs on the back of Clark's neck stood up.

"I've read your work. After Lois Lane, you've made a career out of writing about Superman." He cocked his head to one side. "Tell me: What do you hope to achieve with this series?"

Clark stood his ground. "You haven't answered my question."

Fischer smiled gently. "Your paper has made a lot of money off of Superman. Can the Planet really claim to cover him objectively when so much of their bottom line depends on him?"

"Can you really expect me to take that seriously when your radio network is benefiting from covering this series?" Clark countered. "At last count, your audience had increased 12 percent since you've started reading excerpts on the air."

"From a series your editor started purely to keep his ad revenues up." Fischer's smile widened. "Your turn."

"Answer my question. What, in your opinion is Superman?"

Fischer shook his head. "Tsk, tsk, tsk," he chided. "Someone hasn't been paying attention. If you had been listening you'd know I'd answered that question before you even asked it. He's an abomination."

Clark paled, unable to answer.

So a familiar voice did it for him.

"There are many faiths, my friend, and more than one way to believe. You should learn to look through others' eyes. What you would call a demon others might simply call a fragment of God."

Bruce Wayne stared back at him from Clark's side, arms folded and eyes glinting challenge.

"And I thought you didn't believe in God, Mr. Wayne," Fischer said calmly. "He's not _the _devil. Let me be clear. Do not be deceived. He's a completely different order of being with an infernal power that can neither be trusted nor controlled. He's _not _of God. And what is not of God, must be of the devil."

"And the devil's job is to save lives?" Bruce said, eyebrows raised.

"That's right," another chimed in. "Doesn't your own scripture say 'you shall know them by their fruits'?"

"Even Satan can come as an angel of light. Take 9/11. If humanity hadn't become so dependent on Superman instead of God," Rev. Roy reasoned, " we would have had the strength of will to shoot down the second plane before it hit the other tower. Did you ever ask yourself how many of the victims called out to Superman instead of God before they died?"

Stricken, Clark found his voice again. "How can you even ask a question like that?" Belatedly, he realized the question violated his professional objectivity.

"But that's what everyone's thinking isn't it? How many people were looking to the skies for his deliverance instead of God's? We're elevating him to the status of a god. And what happens when he wakes up to the fact that he can incinerate us all with a single glance?"

Bruce's silence was deafening in Clark's ears.

"Break out the marshmallows?" quipped one.

"I say we break out the special K and give him both barrels," muttered another.

"Or burn him at the stake?" sniped a third.

"Well this series is doing a pretty good job of that already," another voice said.

Bruce and Clark exchanged silent glances.

All eyes swung to the man opposite Fischer. Clark racked his brain to recall his name. Archer. Adam Archer. Senator Adam Archer. He was the junior senator from New York, a member of the subcommittee for homeland security, and the current fair-haired boy of his party. Literally fair-haired in fact, as Clark noted Archer's Nordic coloring, which was a legacy of his family's Dutch antecedents. The senator had distinguished himself by appearing on The King Fish Hour and debating Fischer to a standstill.

He certainly had the credentials to do it. Archer held a master's degree in divinity studies from Yale. At one point he had wanted to become an ordained minister. But he was the lone son of a wealthy family that had no intention of letting him "waste" himself on the church. They had wanted him to study finance. He'd compromised by adding a second major of public finance. His family had used their pull to get him a position with Goldman Sachs. He'd confounded them by eschewing financial speculation and concentrating on municipal bonds and manufacturing debt, unglamorous areas with profit margins too low to make him a billionaire in his own right. The Planet had reported that he was the Senate's point man for coordinating America's effort to bring all found sources of kryptonite under government control. Before that he had made a name for himself authoring legislation to rewrite the credit laws to lower rates for low-income borrowers. It hadn't passed, as some critics said he suspected it wouldn't. Clark recalled Bruce derisively referring to him as the "the poor man's prince." Clark knew better than to point out the irony of Bruce casting doubt on Archer's sincerity while refusing to acknowledge his own privileged status in Gotham.

"Really?" said a shaggy-haired seminarian. "I thought it was a pretty positive piece."

Archer shook his head as if talking to a child or an idiot. "It's the Wizard of Oz syndrome. 'Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.' It's the same thing. They're pulling back the curtain, or rather cape, on Superman. What is he really? And what does he mean to us, in the grand scheme of things, once and for all? The man lifted a planet into space, for God's sake. They're not asking if the Kryptonians were gods. They're asking if _Superman_ is a god." He shook his head. "Journalists, they never know when to leave well enough alone."

A woman wearing a minister's collar asked, "But isn't that their job, to ask questions?"

"Do you really want to ask the pope if he's actually God's emissary on Earth?" Archer answered. "I seem to recall someone named Luther wondering the same thing. You know how that worked out. Blood and bodies everywhere until we finally got a cease fire between the Catholics and the Protestants. And oh that only took what, most of the 16th century?"

"Oh come on!" someone tossed out. "It's not like there's a church of Superman."

"Really?" Fischer asked. "Who do you think our youth believe in _if _they believe in anything at all?"

"And why wouldn't they?" Heads turned to Gotham Post-Times reporter Vince Clay, who stared back at them with more than just a hint of intoxication in his eyes. "They can actually _see _Superman. Isn't your God supposed to be coming back any day now? Well Superman actually made it back. What have _you_ got?"

"He's _not _a god," Bruce interjected. "which he himself would acknowledge I suspect if anyone could ask him."

"Quite so," the Sikh averred. "When in anything he has done has he ever assumed such a status? It's quite the opposite in fact. He's a servant. He serves humankind, otherwise why would he do what he does?"

"Yes, but a servant of whom?" Fischer asked. "With all due respect, we don't really know who he is. We don't know why he's here. We don't know why he left. We don't know why he came back. And what does _he _believe in?"

"Well, what did he say once?" Clay asked. "Truth, justice and the American way? Well the American way is shot for the time being. And whose truth? Whose justice? And how the hell did America sneak into that little mantra? What, Canada doesn't count? India? Africa? The very fact that he said America way back when put me on alert. Truth and justice should be for everybody and frankly I'm not all that happy living under the American way, not the way it is now. The American way got us 9/11. So if Superman is fighting for that, I'd rather he just sits that one out."

"Or take a more ecumenical approach?" the female cleric asked.

"But that's not the point," another man chimed in. He was a shorter man, almost lost in the crush around Fischer. His frizzy white hair was thinning into baldness. The warm brown skin of his cherubic face was accented by a spray of fine lines and wrinkles that put his age in the neighborhood of the sixties. He was modestly dressed in an ordinary gray suit with a surprisingly loud red shirt beneath a cleric's collar. Clearly, he'd made no effort to dress up and was not at all perturbed by the fact. To Clark, he seemed bemused without being cynical as if he were listening to a soothing melody only he could hear.

"We assume power corrupts," he continued, "and that absolute power corrupts absolutely. That's true for humans. But he's not human. We don't know the Kryptonian mind so we don't know how he will react. Based on all the good he's done so far, can't we afford to give him the benefit of the doubt?"

"Well, Ellis, I can tell you what we _can't _afford to do," Archer interjected. "We can't afford to keep giving him a pass on national security."

"How in the world is _Superman _a threat to national security?"

Archer shrugged non-committedly. "New Krypton. Luther never would have been able to create it if he hadn't stolen technology from Superman – technology we didn't know he had, by the way and still haven't been able to track down. What the hell else is he hiding from us?"

Ellis waved his hand at Archer's comments as if batting away insects. "Wait, wait, wait, we're putting Superman on a watch list now? He can't have a life?"

"Not without clearing it with us," said Archer grimly. Across from him Fischer nodded. Bruce remained silent. Clark was looking at the floor.

"Well that's just the height of misguidedness," Ellis said. "Is that a word?Look, you're all worried about the wrong thing. First of all, if he's here, he's here for a reason. Good or bad we don't know." He looked around pointedly, his eyes flickering above his bifocals. "Last time I checked we were all servants of God, so it's not our place to say why. We just have to follow God's will and live with it. The same way we live with all the crazy relatives, co-workers and friends God seems fit to send us. You've got people falling off the wagon, skimming off the top, or flirting with the secretary or the mailman every single day and we don't lynch them – well, not anymore anyway.

"If you want to worry about something," he continued "worry about the man you don't see."

Clark raised his head to look at him, eyes blazing.

"Oh I don't blame him," Ellis added. "He _has_ to hide parts of his life. Otherwise, we'd be tugging on his cape 24 hours a day. But what happens when secrecy becomes a way of life? What are you tempted to get away with? I worry about the man when he has to eat and sleep, when he's home alone where no one can see. Who does he live with? Who does he love? And what would he do for that person? How far would he go? Would he sacrifice any of us to do it?"

Clark could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

"I don't believe he's evil. But I know what I would do for _my _wife. And if it came down to a choice between you and her, I'd throw _all_ of you under the bus." He laughed.

Fischer's gaze was granite. Archer stared skeptically at him. But the rest of the crowd chuckled appreciatively. Ellis pressed on, oblivious. "As I said, I don't believe he's evil. But he isn't perfect either. He'll make mistakes. New Krypton was one of them. But we know about that. We can deal with that. My question is what has he done that we _don't_ know about. And has he corrected those mistakes or just covered them up?"

"Why does it matter?" Clark asked quietly. From the corner of his eye, he saw Bruce glance at him speculatively. But Clark was too consumed by his need to hear the answer to care.

Ellis shifted his warm gaze to Clark. "You're a reporter, son. You know the deal. Cover ups _always _unravel over time. To paraphrase the Good Book, what's done in the dark will come into the light. If he hasn't made his restitution yet, it'll blow up in his face and probably ours too."

"Who says?" Clay asked.

"_Life, _my friend, life, not to mention the One who created it. As long as we're on the same planet, we're all in this together. Besides, as powerful as he is, when he messes up, we all feel it."

"Couldn't he go to another world?" someone in the back of the group asked.

"He tried that and he wound up back here. No. I think this is it for him. Like I said, we're all in this together. But people need to understand that. Ripping him to shreds doesn't do him or us any good and if this series gets people to see that so much the better. I think this series is a good thing. It'll get folks to thinking. And I think it'll put humanity's relationship with Superman on a more even footing. I mean after all we're not perfect and neither is he. Isn't that common ground?"

Fischer chuckled softly as if mocking a first-year divinity student. The sound made Clark think of a hissing snake. "Oh Ellis, you need to tune in to my show more often. We're not here to psychoanalyze a freak. Our duty is to God and _humanity_. God has already dealt with the Kryptonians. We're here. Krypton is not. Don't you think there's a message there?"

"There is no message," Clark said coldly. "Krypton disintegrated when its sun went supernova. It was a natural phenomenon. There was no divine judgment involved."

Fischer nodded. "Keep telling yourself that. God created the universe. He created Krypton and He let it die. Clearly the Kryptonians were judged and found wanting in God's sight. What makes Superman any different from the rest of his people? Who is Superman to escape God's judgment?"

Clark felt his hands shake as the air left his lungs. On the edge of the crowd, he saw Mel standing there. He saw the look on her face.

"Excuse me."

He turned on his heel and fled.

**Author's End Note:** _Sorry, had to chime in again. Thank you to everyone who sent out positive vibes and/or reviewed the last few scenes. Chapter 4 is in the works._


End file.
